ALL   THINGS    ARE    POSSIBLE 


ALL  THINGS  ARE  POSSIBLE 

BY   LEO   SHESTOV 


AUTHORISED  TRANSLATION 

BY    S.   S.   KOTELIANSKY 

WITH     A     FOREWORD     BY 

D.    H.    LAWRENCE 


NEW  YORK 
ROBERT  M.  McBRlDE  ^  CO. 

1920 


NOTE 

Leo  Shestov  is  one  of  the  living  Russians.  He  is 
about  fifty  years  old.  He  was  born  at  Kiev,  and 
studied  at  the  university  there.  His  first  book 
appeared  in  1898,  since  which  year  he  has  gradually 
gained  an  assured  position  as  one  of  the  best  critics 
and  essayists  in  Russia.  A  hst  of  his  works  is  as 
follows : — 

1898.  Shakespeare  and  his  Critic,  Brandes. 

1900.  Good  in  the  Teaching  of  Dostoevsky  and 
Nietzsche  :   Philosophy  and  Preaching. 

1903.  Dostoevsky  and  Nietzsche :  The  Philosophy 
of  Tragedy. 

1905.  The  Apotheosis  of  Groundlessness  (here  trans- 
lated under  the  title  "  All  Things  are 
Possible  "). 

1908.  Beginnings  and  Ends. 

1912.  Great  Vigils. 


640383 


FOREWORD„ 

In  his  paragraph  on  ^he  Russian  Spirit^ 
Shestov  gives  us  the  real  clue  to  Russian 
literature.  European  culture  is  a  rootless 
thifig  in  the  Russians.  With  us,  it  is  our 
very  blood  and  bones,  the  very  nerve  and  root 
of  our  psyche.  We  think  in  a  certain  fashion, 
we  feel  in  a  certain  fashion,  because  our  whole 
substance  is  of  this  fashion.  Our  speech  and 
feeling  are  organically  inevitable  to  us. 

With  the  Russians  it  is  different.  7hey 
have  only  been  inoculated  with  the  virus  of 
European  culture  and  ethic.  The  virus  works 
in  them  like  a  disease.  And  the  inflammation 
and  irritation  comes  forth  as  literature.  The 
bubbling  and  fizzing  is  almost  chemical,  not 
organic.  It  is  an  organism  seething  as  it 
accepts  and  masters  the  strange  virus.    What 

7 


thg  Russian  is  struggling  zvith^  crying  out 
against,  is  not  life  itself :  it  is  only  European 
culture  which  has  been  introduced  into  his 
psyche,  and  which  hurts  him,  The  tragedy 
is  not  so  much  a  real  soul  tragedy,  as  a  surgical 
one.  Russian  art,  Russian  literature  after 
all  does  not  stand  on  the  same  footing  as 
European  or  Greek  or  Egyptian  art.  It  is 
not  spontaneous  utterance.  It  is  not  the 
flowering  of  a  race.  It  is  a  surgical  outcry, 
horrifying,  or  marvellous,  lacerati^ig  at  first; 
but  when  we  get  used  to  it,  not  really  so  pro- 
found, not  really  ultimate,  a  little  extraneous. 
What  is  valuable  is  the  evidence  against 
European  culture,  implied  in  the  novelists^ 
here  at  last  expressed.  Since  Peter  the  Great 
Russia  has  been  accepting  Europe,  and  seeth- 
ing Europe  down  in  a  curious  process  of 
katabolism.  Russia  has  been  expressing 
nothing  inherently  Russian.  Russia's  modern 
Christianity  even  was  not  Russian.  Her 
genuine  Christianity,  Byzantine  and  Asiatic, 
is  incomprehensible  to  us.  So  with  her  true 
philosophy.  What  she  has  actually  uttered 
8 


is  her  own  unmlling,  fantastic  reproduction  of 
European  truths.  What  she  has  really  to 
utter  the  coming  centuries  will  hear.  For 
Russia  will  certainly  inherit  the  future.  What 
we  already  call  the  greatness  of  Russia  is  only 
her  pre-natal  struggling. 

It  seems  as  if  she  had  at  last  absorbed  and 
overcome  the  virus  of  old  Europe.  Soon  her 
new,  healthy  body  will  begin  to  act  in  its  own 
reality,  imitative  no  more,  protesting  no  more, 
crying  no  more,  but  full  and  sound  and  lusty 
in  itself.  Real  Russia  is  born.  She  will 
laugh  at  us  before  long.  Meanwhile  she  goes 
through  the  last  stages  of  reaction  against  us, 
kicking  away  from  the  old  womb  of  Europe, 

In  Shestov  one  of  the  last  kicks  is  given. 
True,  he  seems  to  be  only  reactionary  and 
destructive.  But  he  can  find  a  little  amuse- 
ment at  last  in  tweaking  the  European  nose, 
so  he  is  fairly  free.  European  idealism  is 
anathema.  But  more  than  this,  it  is  a  little 
comical.  We  feel  the  new  independence  in 
his  new,  half-amused  indifference. 

He  is  only  tweaking  the  nose  of  European 

9 


idealism.  He  is  preaching  nothing :  so  he 
protests  time  and  again.  He  absolutely  re- 
futes any  imputation  of  a  central  idea.  He  is 
so  afraid  lest  it  should  turn  out  to  be  another 
hateful  hedge-stake  of  an  ideal. 

"  Everything  is  possible  " — this  is  his  really 
central  cry.  It  is  not  nihilism.  It  is  only 
a  shaking  free  of  the  human  psyche  from  old 
bonds.  The  positive  central  idea  is  that  the 
human  psyche,  or  soul,  really  believes  in  itself, 
and  in  nothing  else. 

Dress  this  up  in  a  little  comely  language, 
and  zve  have  a  real  new  ideal,  that  will  last 
us  for  a  nezv,  long  epoch.  The  human  soul 
itself  is  the  source  and  well-head  of  creative 
activity.  In  the  unconscious  human  soul  the 
creative  prompting  issues  first  into  the  universe. 
Open  the  consciousness  to  this  prompting, 
away  with  all  your  old  sluice-gates,  locks, 
dams,  channels.  No  ideal  on  earth  is  anything 
more  than  an  obstruction,  in  the  end,  to  the 
creative  issue  of  the  spontaneous  soul.  Away 
with  all  ideals.  Let  each  individual  act 
spontaneously  from    the    forever-incalculable 

10 


prompting  of  the  creative  well-head  within 
him.  There  is  no  universal  law.  Each  being 
is,  at  his  purest,  a  law  unto  himself,  single, 
unique,  a  Godhead,  a  fountain  from  the 
unknown, 

This  is  the  ideal  which  Shestov  refuses 
positively  to  state,  because  he  is  afraid  it 
may  prove  in  the  end  a  trap  to  catch  his  own 
free  spirit.  So  it  may.  But  it  is  none  the 
less  a  real,  living  ideal  for  the  moment,  the 
very  salvation.  When  it  becomes  ancient, 
and  like  the  old  lion  who  lay  in  his  cave  and 
whined,  devours  all  its  servants,  then  it 
can  he  despatched.  Meanwhile  it  is  a  really 
liberating  word. 

Shestov's  style  is  puzzling  at  first.  Having 
found  the  "  ands  "  and  "  buts  "  and  "  he- 
causes  "  and  "  therefores  "  hampered  him,  he 
clips  them  all  off  deliberately  and  even  spite- 
fully, so  that  his  thought  is  like  a  man  with 
no  buttons  on  his  clothes,  ludicrously  hitching 
along  all  undone.  One  must  be  amused,  not 
irritated.  Where  the  armholes  were  a  hit 
tightj  Shestov  cuts  a  slit.    It  is  baffling,  but 

II 


really  rather  piquant.     The  real  conjunction, 

the  real  unification  lies  in  the  reader's  own 

amusejnent,    not    in    the    author's    unbroken 

logic. 

D.  H.  Lawrence. 


12 


PART   I 

Zu  fragmentarish  ist  Welt  und  Lehen. 

H.  Heine. 


J 


I 

The  obscure  streets  of  life  do  not  offer 
the  conveniences  of  the  central  thorough- 
fares :  no  electric  light,  no  gas,  not  even  a 
kerosene  lamp-bracket.  There  are  no  pave- 
ments :  the  traveller  has  to  fumble  his 
way  in  the  dark.  If  he  needs  a  light,  he 
must  wait  for  a  thunderbolt,  or  else, 
primitive-wise,  knock  a  spark  out  of  a 
stone.  In  a  glimpse  will  appear  unfamiliar 
outlines  ;  and  then,  what  he  has  taken  in 
he  must  try  to  remember,  no  matter  whether 
the  impression  ivas  right  or  false.  For  he 
will  not  easily  get  another  light,  except  he 
run  his  head  against  a  wall,  and  see  sparks 
that  way.  What  can  a  wretched  pedestrian 
gather  under  such  circumstances  ?  How 
can  we  expect  a  clear  account  from  him 
whose  curiosity  (let  us  suppose  his  curi- 
osity so  strong)  led  him  to  grope  his  way 
among  the  outskirts  of  life  ?  Why  should 
we  try  to  compare  his  records  with  those  of 
the  travellers  through  brilliant  streets  ? 

15 


2 

The  law  of  sequence  in  natural  pheno- 
mena seems  so  plausible,  so  obvious,  that 
one  is  tempted  to  look  for  its  origin,  not 
in  the  realities  of  actual  life,  but  in  the 
promptings  of  the  human  mind.  This  law 
of  sequence  is  the  most  mysterious  of  all 
the  natural  laws.  Why  so  much  order  ? 
Why  not  chaos  and  disorderliness  ?  Really, 
if  the  hypothesis  of  sequence  had  not 
offered  such  blatant  advantages  to  the 
human  intelligence,  man  would  never  have 
thought  of  raising  it  to  the  rank  of  eternal 
and  irrefutable  truth.  But  he  saw  his 
opportunity.  Thanks  to  the  grand  hypo- 
thesis, man  is  forewarned  and  forearmed. 
Thanks  to  this  master-key,  the  future  is  at 
his  mercy.  He  knows,  in  order  that  he 
may  foreknow  :  savoir  pour  prevoir.  Here, 
is  man,  by  virtue  of  one  supreme  assump- 
tion, dictator  henceforward  of  all  nature. 
The  philosophers  have  ever  bowed  the  knee 
to  success.  So  down  they  went  before  the 
newly-invented  law  of  natural  sequence, 
they  hailed  it  with  the  title  of  eternal  truth. 
But  even  this  seemed  insufficient.  Vappeiit 
vient  en  mangeant.  Like  the  old  woman  in 
the  fairy-tale  about  the  golden  fish,  they 
had  it  in  their  minds  that  the  fish  should 

i6 


do  their  errands.  But  some  few  people  at 
last  could  not  stand  this  impudence.  Some 
very  few  began  to  object 

3 

The    comfortable    settled    man    says    to 

himself :  "  How  could  one  live  without 
being  sure  of  the  morrow ;  how  could  one 
sleep  without  a  roof  over  one's  head  ?  " 
But  misfortune  turns  him  out  of  house  and 
home.  He  must  perforce  sleep  under  a 
hedge.  He  cannot  rest,  he  is  full  of  terrors. 
There  may  be  wild  beasts,  fellow-tramps. 
But  in  the  long  run  he  gets  used  to  it. 
He  will  trust  himself  to  chance,  live  like  a 
tramp,  and  sleep  his  sleep  in  a  ditch. 

4 
A  writer,  particularly  a  young  and  inex- 
perienced writer,  feels  himself  under  an 
obligation  to  give  his  reader  the  fullest 
answers  to  all  possible  questions.  Con- 
science will  not  let  him  shut  his  eyes  to 
tormenting  problems,  and  so  he  begins  to 
speak  of  "  first  and  ultimate  things."  As 
he  cannot  say  anything  profitable  on  such 
subjects — for  it  is  not  the  business  of  the 
young  to  be  profoundly  philosophical — 
he   grows    excited,    he    shouts    himself    to 

B  17 


hoarseness.  In  the  end  he  is  silent  from 
exhaustion.  And  then,  if  his  words  have 
had  any  success  with  the  pubHc,  he  is 
astonished  to  find  that  he  has  become  a 
prophet.  Whereupon,  if  he  be  an  average 
sort  of  person,  he  is  filled  with  an  insatiable 
desire  to  preserve  his  influence  till  the  end 
of  his  days.  But  if  he  be  more  sensitive 
or  gifted  than  usual,  he  begins  to  despise 
the  crowd  for  its  vulgar  credulity,  and 
himself  for  having  posed  in  the  stupid  and 
disgraceful  character  of  a  clown  of  lofty  ideas. 

5 
How  painful  it  is  to  read  Plato's  account 

of  the  last  conversations  of  Socrates  !    The 

days,  even  the  hours  of  the  old  man  are 

numbered,  and  yet  he  talks,  talks,  talks.  .  .  . 

Crito  comes  to  him  in  the  early  morning 

and   tells   him    that   the   sacred   ships   will 

shortly    return    to   Athens.     And    at    once 

Socrates  is  ready  to  talk,  to  argue.  ...  It 

is   possible,    of   course,    that    Plato   is   not 

altogether  to  be  trusted.     It  is  said  that 

Socrates  observed,  of  the  dialogues  already 

written  down  by  Plato.     "  How  much  that 

youth   has   belied   me !  "     But    then   from 

all  sources  we  have  it,  that  Socrates  spent 

the  month  following  his  verdict  in  incessant 

i8 


conversations  with  his  pupils  and  friends. 
That  is  what  it  is  to  be  a  beloved  master, 
and  to  have  disciples.  You  can't  even  die 
quietly.  .  .  .  The  best  death  is  really  the 
one  which  is  considered  the  worst :  to  die 
alone,  in  a  foreign  land,  in  a  poor-house,  or, 
as  they  say,  like  a  dog  under  a  hedge. 
Then  at  least  one  may  spend  one's  last 
moments  honestly,  without  dissembling  or 
ostentation,  preparing  oneself  for  the  dread- 
ful, or  wonderful,  event.  Pascal,  as  his 
sister  tells  us,  also  talked  a  great  deal 
before  his  death,  and  de  Musset  cried  like 
a  baby.  Perhaps  Socrates  and  Pascal  talked 
so  much,  for  fear  they  should  start  crying. 
It  is  a  false  shame  ! 

6 

The  fact  that  some  ideas,  or  some  series 
of  ideas,  are  materially  unprofitable  to 
mankind  cannot  serve  as  a  justification  for 
their  rejection.  Once  an  idea  is  there,  the 
gates  must  be  opened  to  it.  For  if  you 
close  the  gates,  the  thought  will  force  a 
way  in,  or,  like  the  fly  in  the  fable,  will 
sneak  through  unawares.  Ideas  have  no 
regard  for  our  laws  of  honour  or  morality. 
Take  for  example  realism  in  literature.  At 
its  appearance  it  aroused  universal  indigna- 

19 


tion.  Why  need  we  know  the  dirt  of  life  ? 
And  honestly,  there  is  no  need.  Realism 
could  give  no  straightforward  justification 
for  itself.  But,  as  it  had  to  come  through, 
it  was  ready  with  a  lie ;  it  compared  itself 
to  pathology,  called  itself  useful,  beneficial, 
and  so  obtained  a  place.  We  can  all  see 
now  that  realism  is  not  beneficial,  but  harm- 
ful, very  harmful,  and  that  it  has  nothing 
in  common  with  pathology.  Nevertheless, 
it  is  no  longer  easy  to  drive  it  from  its 
place.  The  prohibition  evaded,  there  is 
now  the  Justus  titulus  possessionis. 

1 
Count  Tolstoy  preached  inaction.  It  seems 

he  had  no  need.  We  *'  inact  '*  remarkably. 
Idleness,  just  that  idleness  Tolstoy  dreamed 
of,  a  free,  conscious  idling  that  despises 
labour,  this  is  one  of  the  chief  characteristics 
of  our  time.  Of  course  I  speak  of  the  higher, 
cultured  classes,  the  aristocracy  of  spirit — 
"  We  write  books,  paint  pictures,  compose 
symphonies  " — But  is  that  labour  ?  It  is 
only  the  amusement  of  idleness.  So  that 
Tolstoy  is  much  more  to  the  point  when, 
forgetting  his  preaching  of  inaction,  he 
bids  us  trudge  eight  hours  a  day  at  the  tail 
of    the    plough.     In    this    there    is    some 

20 


sense.  Idleness  spoils  us.  We  were  re- 
turning to  the  most  primitive  of  all  the 
states  of  our  forefathers.  Like  paradisal 
Adam  and  Eve,  having  no  need  to  sweat 
for  our  bread,  we  were  trying  to  pilfer  the 
fruit  from  the  forbidden  tree.  Truly  we 
received  a  similar  punishment.  Divine  laws 
are  inscrutable.  In  Paradise  everything  is 
permitted,  except  curiosity.  Even  labour 
is  allowed,  though  it  is  not  obligatory,  as  it 
is  outside.  Tolstoy  realised  the  dangers  of 
the  paradisal  state.  He  stooped  to  talk  of 
inaction  for  a  moment — and  then  he  began 
to  work.  Since  in  regular,  smooth,  con- 
stant, rhythmical  labour,  whether  it  is 
efficient  or  whether  it  merely  appears  efficient, 
like  Tolstoy's  farming,  there  is  peace  of 
mind.  Look  at  the  industrious  Germans, 
who  begin  and  who  end  their  day  with  a 
prayer.  In  Paradise,  where  there  is  no 
labour,  and  no  need  for  long  rest  and  heavy 
sleep,  all  temptations  become  dangerous. 
It  is  a  peril  to  live  there.  .  .  .  Perhaps 
present-day  people  eschew  the  paradisal 
state.  They  prefer  work,  for  where  there 
is  no  work  there  is  no  smoothness,  no 
regularity,  no  peacefulness,  no  satisfaction. 
In  Eden,  even  the  well-informed  individuals 
cannot   tell  what  will   come   next,   savotr 

21 


pour  prevoir  does  not  answer,  and  ever- 
lasting laws  are  exposed  to  ridicule.  Amongst 
ourselves  also  a  few  of  the  work-abjurors, 
the  idlers,  are  beginning  to  question  our 
established  knowledge.  But  the  majority 
of  men,  and  particularly  Germans,  still 
defend  a  priori  judgments,  on  the  ground 
that  without  these,  perfect  knowledge  would 
be  impossible,  there  could  be  no  regulation 
of  the  course  of  natural  phenomena,  and 
no  looking  ahead. 

8 

To  escape  from  the  grasp  of  contemporary 
ruling  ideas,  one  should  study  history.  The 
lives  of  other  men  in  other  lands  in  other 
ages  teach  us  to  realise  that  our  "  eternal 
laws  "  and  infallible  ideas  are  just  abortions. 
Take  a  step  further,  imagine  mankind  living 
elsewhere  than  on  this  earth,  and  all  our 
terrestial  eternalities  lose  their  charm. 

9 

We  know  nothing  of  the  ultimate  realities 

of  our  existence,  nor  shall  we  ever  know 
anything.  Let  that  be  agreed.  But  it 
does  not  follow  that  therefore  we  must 
accept  some  or  other  dogmatic  theory  as 
a  modus  vivendi,  no,  not  even  positivism, 

22 


which  has  such  a  sceptical  face  on  it.  It 
only  follows  that  man  is  free  to  change  his 
conception  of  the  universe  as  often  as  he 
changes  his  boots  or  his  gloves,  and  that 
constancy  of  principle  belongs  only  to  one's 
relationships  with  other  people,  in  order 
that  they  may  know  where  and  to  what 
extent  they  may  depend  on  us.  Therefore, 
on  principle  man  should  respect  order  in 
the  external  world  and  complete  chaos  in 
the  inner.  And  for  those  who  find  it  diffi- 
cult to  bear  such  a  duality,  some  internal 
order  might  also  be  provided.  Only,  they 
should  not  pride  themselves  on  it,  but 
always  remember  that  it  is  a  sign  of  their 
weakness,  pettiness,  dullness. 

10 

The  Pythagoreans  assumed  that  the  sun 
is  motionless  and  that  the  earth  turns 
round.  What  a  long  time  the  truth  had  to 
wait  for  recognition ! 

II 

In  spite  of  Epicurus  and  his  exasperation 
we  are  forced  to  admit  that  anything  what- 
soever may  result  from  anything  whatso- 
ever. Which  does  not  mean,  however,  that 
a   stone  ever  turned   into   bread,  or   that 


our  visible  universe  was  ever  "  naturally  '* 
formed  from  nebulous  puffs.  But  from  our 
own  minds  and  our  own  experience  we  can 
deduce  nothing  that  would  serve  us  as  a 
ground  for  setting  even  the  smallest  limit 
to  nature's  own  arbitrary  behaviour.  If 
whatever  happens  now  had  chanced  to 
happen  quite  differently,  it  would  not, 
therefore,  have  seemed  any  the  less  natural 
to  us.  In  other  words,  although  there  may 
be  an  element  of  inevitability  in  our  human 
judgments  concerning  the  natural  pheno- 
mena, we  have  never  been  able  and  prob- 
ably never  shall  be  able  to  separate  the 
grain  of  inevitable  from  the  chaff  of  acci- 
dental and  casual  truth.  Moreover,  we  do 
not  even  know  which  is  more  essential  and 
important,  the  inevitable  or  the  casual. 
Hence  we  are  forced  to  the  conclusion  that 
philosophy  must  give  up  her  attempt  at 
finding  the  veriiaies  aeternae.  The  business 
of  philosophy  is  to  teach  man  to  live  in 
uncertainty — man  who  is  supremely  afraid 
of  uncertainty,  and  who  is  forever  hiding 
himself  behind  this  or  the  other  dogma. 
More  briefly,  the  business  of  philosophy  is 
not  to  reassure  people,  but  to  upset  them. 


»4 


12 

When  man  finds  in  himself  a  certain  defect, 
of  which  he  can  by  no  means  rid  himself, 
there  remains  but  to  accept  the  so-called 
failing  as  a  natural  quality.  The  more 
grave  and  important  the  defect,  the  more 
urgent  is  the  need  to  ennoble  it.  From 
sublime  to  ridiculous  is  only  one  step,  and  an 
ineradicable  vice  in  strong  men  is  always 
rechristened  a  virtue. 

On  the  whole,  there  is  little  to  choose 
between  metaphysics  and  positivism.  In 
each  there  is  the  same  horizon,  but  the 
composition  and  colouring  are  different. 
Positivism  chooses  grey,  colourless  paint  and 
ordinary  composition  ;  metaphysics  prefers 
brilliant  colouring  and  complicated  design, 
and  always  carries  the  vision  away  into  the 
infinite;  in  which  trick  it  often  succeeds, 
owing  to  its  skill  in  perspective.  But  the 
canvas  is  impervious,  there  is  no  melting 
through  it  into  "  the  other  world."  Never- 
theless, skilful  perspectives  are  very  alluring, 
so  that  metaphysicians  will  still  have  some- 
thing to  quarrel  about  with  the  positivists. 


25 


H 

The  task  of  a  writer  :    to  go  forward  and 

share  his  impressions  with  his  reader.  In 
spite  of  everything  to  the  contrary,  he  is 
not  obliged  to  prove  anytliing.  But,  because 
every  step  of  his  progress  is  dogged  by  those 
police  agents,  morality,  science,  logic,  and 
so  forth,  he  needs  always  to  have  ready  some 
sort  of  argument  with  which  to  frustrate 
them.  There  is  no  necessity  to  trouble  too 
deeply  about  the  quality  of  the  argumenta- 
tion. Why  fret  about  being  "  inwardly 
right."  It  is  quite  enough  if  the  reasoning 
which  comes  handiest  will  succeed  in  occupy- 
ing those  guardians  of  the  verbal  highways 
whose  intention  it  is  to  obstruct  his  passage. 

The  Secret  of  Poushkin's  "  inner  har- 
mony."— To  Poushkin  nothing  was  hope- 
less. Nay,  he  saw  hopeful  signs  in  every- 
thing. It  is  agreeable  to  sin,  and  it  is 
just  as  delightful  to  repent.  It  is  good  to 
doubt,  but  it  is  still  better  to  believe.  It  is 
jolly  "  with  feet  shod  in  steel  "  to  skate  the 
ice,  it  is  pleasant  to  wander  about  with 
gypsies,  to  pray  in  church,  to  quarrel  with 
a  friend,  to  make  peace  with  an  enemy,  to 
swoon  on  waves  of  harmony,  to  weep  over 

26 


a  passing  fancy,  to  recall  the  past,  to  peep 
into  the  future.  Poushkin  could  cry  hot 
tears,  and  he  who  can  weep  can  hope. 
*'  I  want  to  live,  so  that  I  may  think  and 
suffer,"  he  says ;  and  it  seems  as  if  the 
word  "  to  suffer,"  which  is  so  beautiful  in 
the  poem,  just  fell  in  accidentally,  because 
there  was  no  better  rhyme  in  Russian  for 
"  to  die."  The  later  verses,  which  are 
intended  to  amplify  to  think  and  to  sufer^ 
prove  this.  Poushkin  might  repeat  the 
words  of  the  ancient  hero :  "  danger  is 
dangerous  to  others,  but  not  to  me."  There- 
in lies  the  secret  of  his  harmonious  moods. 

i6 
The  well-trodden  field  of  contemporary 
thought  should  be  dug  up.  Therefore,  on 
every  possible  occasion,  in  season  and  out, 
the  generally-accepted  truths  must  be  ridi- 
culed to  death,  and  paradoxes  uttered  in 
their  place.    Then  we  shall  see  .  .  . 

What  is  a  Weltanschauung,  a  world- 
conception,  a  philosophy  ?  As  we  all  know, 
Turgenev  was  a  realist,  and  from  the  first 
he  tried  to  portray  life  truthfully.  Although 
we  had  had  no  precise  exponents  of  realism, 

27 


yet  after  Poushkin  it  was  impossible  for  a 
Russian  writer  to  depart  too  far  from 
actuality.  Even  those  who  did  not  know 
what  to  do  with  *'  real  life "  had  to  cope 
with  it  as  best  they  could.  Hence,  in  order 
that  the  picture  of  life  should  not  prove  too 
depressing,  the  writer  must  provide  himself 
in  due  season  with  a  philosophy.  This 
philosophy  still  plays  the  part  of  the  magic 
wand  in  literature,  enabling  the  author  to 
turn  anything  he  likes  into  anything  else. 

Most  of  Turgenev's  works  are  curious  in 
respect  of  philosophy.  But  most  curious 
is  his  Diary  of  a  Superfluous  Man.  Turgenev 
was  the  first  to  introduce  the  term  "  a 
superfluous  man  "  into  Russian  literature. 
Since  then  an  endless  amount  has  been 
written  about  superfluous  people,  although 
up  till  now  nothing  important  has  been 
added  to  what  was  already  said  fifty  years 
ago.  There  are  superfluous  people,  plenty 
of  them.  But  what  is  to  be  done  with 
them  ?  No  one  knows.  There  remains 
only  to  invent  philosophies  on  their  behalf. 
In  1850  Turgenev,  then  a  young  man,  thus 
solved  the  problem.  He  ends  the  Diary 
— with  a  humorous  postscript,  supposed 
to  have  been  scribbled  by  an  impertinent 
reader  on  the  last  fly-leaf  of  the  MS. 

28 


7his   MS.   was   readj   and   eontents  thereof 

disapproved^ 
by  Peter  Zudotyeshin.     M.M.M.M. 
Dear  Sir^  Peter  Zudotyeshin,  My  dear  Sir, 

It  is  obvious  Turgenev  felt  that  after  a 
tragedy  must  follow  a  farce,  and  therein 
lies  the  substance  of  his  philosophy.  It  is 
also  obvious  that  in  this  feeling  he  has  the 
whole  of  European  civilisation  behind  him. 
Turgenev  was  the  most  educated,  the  most 
cultured"  of  all  Russian  writers.  He  spent 
nearly  all  his  life  abroad,  and  absorbed  into 
himself  all  that  European  learning  could  offer. 
He  knew  this,  although  he  never  directly 
admitted  it,  owing  to  an  exaggerated 
modesty  which  sometimes  irritates  us  by 
its  obviousness.  He  believed  profoundly 
that  only  learning,  only  European  science 
could  open  men's  eyes  to  life,  and  explain 
all  that  needed  explanation.  According 
to  this  belief  he  judges  even  Tolstoy. 
"  The  saddest  instance  of  the  lack  of  real 
freedom,"  the  sixty-year-old  Turgenev  writes 
of  War  and  Peace,  in  his  literary  memoirs : 
"  the  saddest  instance  of  the  lack  of  real 
freedom,  arising  from  the  lack  of  real 
knowledge,  is  revealed  to  us  in  Leo  Tolstoy's 
latest  work,  a  work  which  at  the  same  time, 

29 


by  virtue  of  its  creative,  poetic  force,  ranks 
almost  first  among  all  that  has  appeared 
in  Russian  literature  since  1 840.     No  !  with- 
out culture,  without  freedom  in  the  widest 
sense,  freedom  within  oneself,  freedom  from 
preconceived  ideas,  freedom  with  regard  to 
one's  own  nation  and  history,  without  this, 
the  real  artist  is  unthinkable ;   without  this 
free  air  he  cannot  breathe."     Listening  to 
Turgenev  one  might  imagine  that  he  had 
learned  some  great  secret  in  the  West,  a 
secret  which  gave  him  the  right   to  bear 
himself  cheerfully  and  modestly  when  other 
people  despaired  and  lost  their  heads.  .  .  . 
A  year   after   the   writing   of   the  literary 
memoirs  above  quoted,  Turgenev  happened 
to  be  present  at  the  execution  of  the  notorious 
murderer,   Tropman.     His   impressions   are 
superbly  rendered  in  a  long  article  called 
"  Tropman's  Execution."    The  description 
produces    a    soul-shaking    effect    upon    the 
reader ;   for  I  think  I  shall  not  exaggerate  if 
I  say  that  the  essay  is  one  of  the  best,  at 
least  one  of  the  most  vigorous  of  Turgenev's 
writings.     It  is  true  that  Tolstoy  describes 
scenes  of  slaughter  with  no  less  vigour,  and 
therefore  the  reader  need  not  yield  too  much 
to  the  artist's  power.     Yet  when  Turgenev 
relates  that,  at  the  decisive  moment,  when 

30 


the    executioners    like     spiders    on    a    fly 
threw   themselves   on   Tropman   and   bore 
him    to    the   ground — "  the    earth    quietly 
swam  away  from  under  my  feet " — we  are 
forced  to  believe  him.     Men  respond  only 
faintly  to  the  horrors  that  take  place  around 
them,  except  at  moments,  when  the  savage, 
crying  incongruity  and  ghastliness  of  our 
condition  suddenly  reveals  itself  vivid  before 
our  eyes,  and  we  are  forced  to  know  what 
we    are.    Then    the    ground    slides    away 
from   under   our   feet.     But   not   for   long. 
The  horror  of  the  sensation  of  groundless- 
ness quickly   brings  man   to  himself.     He 
must  forget  everything,  he  must  only  get 
his    feet    on    earth    again.     In    this    sense 
Turgenev  proved  himself  in  as  risky  a  state 
at  sixty  as  he  was  when,  as  a  young  man, 
he  wrote  his  Diary  of  a  Superfluous  Man. 
The    description    of    Tropman's    execution 
ends  with  these  words  :    "  Who  can  fail  to 
feel  that  the  question  of  capital  punishment 
is  one  of  the  urgent,  immediate  problems 
which    modern  humanity  must   settle  ?     I 
shall    be    satisfied  ...  if    my    story    will 
provide  even   a  few    arguments   for  those 
who    advocate  the   abolition,    or    at    least 
the   suppression  of  the  publicity  of  capital 
punishments."      Again   the   mountain   has 

31 


brought  forth  a  mouse.  After  a  tragedy, 
a  farce.  Philosophy  enters  into  her 
power,  and  the  earth  returns  under  one's 
feet. 

I  emphasise  and  repeat :  Turgenev  is  not 
alone  responsible  for  his  attitude.  With 
his  lips  speaks  the  whole  of  European 
civilisation.  On  principle  all  insoluble 
problems  are  rejected.  During  her  thousand 
years  of  experience,  the  old  civilisation  has 
acquired  the  skill  which  allows  her  children 
to  derive  satisfaction  and  benefit  out  of 
anything,  even  the  blood  of  their  neigh- 
bour. Even  the  greatest  horrors,  even  crimes 
are  beneficial,  properly  construed.  Turgenev 
was,  as  we  know,  a  soft,  "  humane  "  man, 
an  undoubted  idealist.  In  his  youth  he 
had  been  through  the  Hegelian  school. 
And  from  Hegel  he  learned  what  an  enormous 
value  education  has,  and  how  supremely 
important  it  is  for  an  educated  man  to 
have  a  complete  and  finished — most  certainly 
a  "  finished  "  philosophy. 

i8 
To  praise  oneself  is  considered  improper, 
immodest ;  to  praise  one's  own  sect,  one's 
own  philosophy,  is  considered  the  highest 
duty.  Even  the  best  writers  have  taken  at 
32 


least  as  much  trouble  to  glorify  their  philo- 
sophy as  to  found  it,  and  have  always  had 
more  success  in  the  former  case  than  in  the 
latter.  Their  ideas,  whether  proven  or 
not,  are  the  dearest  possession  in  life  to 
them,  in  sorrow  a  consolation,  in  difficulty 
a  source  of  counsel.  Even  death  is  not 
terrible  to  ideas ;  they  will  follow  man 
beyond  the  grave,  they  are  the  only  im- 
perishable riches.  All  this  the  philosophers 
repeat,  very  eloquently  repeat  and  reiterate 
concerning  their  ideas,  not  less  skilfully 
than  advocates  plead  their  cases  on  behalf 
of  thieves  and  swindlers.  But  nobody  has 
ever  yet  called  a  philosopher  "  a  hired 
conscience,"  though  everybody  gives  the 
lawyer  this  nickname.     Why  this  partiality  ? 

Certain  savage  tribes  believe  that  their 
kings  need  no  food,  neither  to  eat  nor  to 
drink.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  kings  eat  and 
drink,  and  even  relish  a  good  mouthful 
more  than  ordinary  mortals.  So,  having 
no  desire,  even  for  the  sake  of  form,  to 
abstain  too  long,  they  not  infrequently 
interrupt  the  long-drawn-out  religious  cere- 
monies of  their  tribes,  in  order  to  command 
refreshment    for    their    frail    bodies.     But 

c  33 


none  must  witness,  or  even  be  aware  of 
this  refreshing,  and  so  while  he  eats  the 
king  is  hidden  within  a  purple  palL  Meta- 
physicians remind  one  of  these  savage 
kings.  They  ^/ant  everyone  to  beHeve 
that  empiricism,  which  means  all  reality 
and  substantial  existence,  is  nothing  to 
them,  they  need  only  pure  ideas  for  their 
existence.  In  order  to  keep  up  this  fiction, 
they  appear  before  the  world  invested  in  a 
purple  veil  of  fine  words.  The  crowd  knows 
perfectly  well  that  it  is  all  a  take-in,  but 
since  it  likes  shows  and  bright  colours, 
and  since  also  it  has  no  ambition  to  appear 
too  knowing,  it  rarely  betrays  that  it  has 
caught  the  trick  of  the  comedy.  On  the 
contrary,  it  loves  to  pretend  to  be  fooled, 
knowing  by  instinct  that  actors  always  do 
their  best  when  the  audience  believes  im- 
plicitly in  what  happens.  Only  inexperi- 
enced youths  and  children,  unaware  of  the 
great  importance  of  the  conventional  atti- 
tide,  now  and  then  cry  out  in  indignation 
and  give  the  lie  to  the  performance  :  like 
the  child  in  Andersen's  story,  who  so 
unexpectedly  and  inopportunely  broke  the 
general,  deliberate  illusion  by  calling  out — 
'*  But  the  king  is  naked."  Of  course  every- 
body knows  without  telling  that  the  king  is 

34 


naked  :  that  the  metaphysicians  not  only 
are  unable  to  explain  anything,  but  that 
hitherto  they  have  not  been  able  to  present 
even  a  single  hypothesis  free  from  contra- 
diction. It  is  necessary  to  pretend  to 
believe  that  kings  eat  nothing,  that  philo- 
sophers have  divined  the  secrets  of  the 
universe,  that  arbitrary  theories  are  more 
precious  than  empirical  harvests,  and  so  on. 
There  remains  only  one  difficulty  :  grown- 
ups may  be  won  over  to  the  conventional 
lie,  but  what  about  the  children  ?  With 
them  the  only  remedy  is  the  Pythagorean 
system  of  upbringing,  so  glorified  by  Hegel. 
Children  must  keep  silent  and  not  raise  their 
voice  until  they  realise  that  some  things 
may  not  be  talked  about.  This  is  our 
method.  With  us  pupils  remain  silent, 
not  only  for  five  years,  as  the  Pythagoreans 
reommended,  but  for  ten  or  more — until 
they  have  learned  to  speak  like  their 
masters.  And  then  they  are  granted  a 
freedom  which  is  no  longer  any  good  to 
them.  Perhaps  they  had  wings,  or  might 
have  had  them,  but  they  have  crawled  all 
their  life  long  in  imitation  of  their  masters, 
so  how  can  they  now  dream  of  flight  ?  To  a 
well-informed  man,  who  has  studied  much, 
the  very  thought  of  the  possibility  of  tearing 

35 


himself  away  from  the  earth,  even  for  a 
moment,  is  horrifying :  as  if  he  knew 
beforehand  what  the  result  would  be. 

20 

The  best,  the  most  effective  way  of 
convincing  a  reader  is  to  begin  one's  argu- 
ment with  inoffensive,  commonplace  asser- 
tions. When  suspicion  has  been  sufficiently 
lulled,  and  a  certainty  has  been  begot  that 
what  follows  will  be  a  confirmation  of  the 
readers  own  accepted  views — then  has  the 
moment  arrived  to  speak  one's  mind  openly, 
but  still  in  the  same  easy  tone,  as  if  there 
were  no  break  in  the  flow  of  truisms.  The 
logical  connection  is  unimportant.  Conse- 
quence of  manner  and  intonation  is  much 
more  impressive  than  consequence  of  ideas. 
The  thing  to  do  is  to  go  on,  in  the  same 
suave  tone,  from  uttering  a  series  of  banal- 
ities to  expressing  a  new  and  dangerous 
thought,  without  any  break.  If  you  suc- 
ceed in  this,  the  business  is  done.  The 
reader  will  not  forget — the  new  words  will 
plague  and  torment  him  until  he  has 
accepted  them. 


36 


21 

The  habit  of  logical  thinking  kills  imagina- 
tion. Man  is  convinced  that  the  only  way 
to  truth  is  through  logic,  and  that  any 
departure  from  this  way  leads  to  error  and 
absurdity.  The  nearer  we  approach  the 
ultimate  questions  of  existence,  in  our 
departure  from  logicality,  the  more  deadly 
becomes  the  state  of  error  we  fall  into.  The 
Ariadne  ball  has  become  all  unwound  long 
ago,  and  man  is  at  the  end  of  the  tether. 
But  he  does  not  know,  he  holds  the  end  of 
the  thread  firmly,  and  marks  time  with 
energy  on  the  same  spot,  imagining  his 
progress,  and  little  realising  the  ridiculous 
situation  into  which  he  has  fallen.  How 
should  he  realise,  considering  the  innumer- 
able precautions  he  has  taken  to  prevent 
himself  from  losing  the  logical  way  ?  He 
had  better  have  stayed  at  home.  Once  he 
set  out,  once  he  decided  to  be  a  Theseus  and 
kill  the  Minotaur,  he  should  have  given 
himself  up,  forfeited  the  old  attachment, 
and  been  ready  never  to  escape  from  the 
labyrinth.  True,  he  would  have  risked  losing 
Ariadne :  and  this  is  why  long  journeys 
should  be  undertaken  only  after  family 
connections  have  become  a  burden.  Such 
being  the  case,  a  man  deliberately  cuts  the 

37 


thread  which  binds  him  to  hearth  and  home, 
80  that  he  may  have  a  legitimate  excuse  to 
his  conscience  for  not  going  back.  Philo- 
sophy must  have  nothing  in  common  with 
logic  ;  philosophy  is  an  art  which  aims  at 
breaking  the  logical  continuity  of  argument 
and  bringing  man  out  on  the  shoreless  sea 
of  imagination,  the  fantastic  tides  where 
everything  is  equally  possible  and  im- 
possible. Certainly  it  is  difficult,  given 
sedentary  habits  of  life,  to  be  a  good  philo- 
sopher. The  fact  that  the  fate  of  philosophy 
has  ever  lain  in  the  hands  of  professors 
can  only  be  explained  by  the  reluctance  of 
the  envious  gods  to  give  omniscience  to 
mortals.  Whilst  stay-at-home  persons  are 
searching  for  truth,  the  apple  will  stay  on 
the  tree.  The  business  must  be  undertaken 
by  homeless  adventurers,  born  nomads, 
to  whom  ubi  bene  ibi  patria.  It  seems  to 
me  that  but  for  his  family  and  his  do- 
mesticity, Count  Tolstoy,  who  lives  to  such 
a  ripe  old  age,  might  have  told  us  a  great 
many  important  and  interesting  things. 
.  .  .  Or,  perhaps,  had  he  not  married,  like 
Nietszche  he  would  have  gone  mad.  "If 
you  turn  to  the  right,  you  will  marry,  if 
to  the  left,  you  will  be  killed."  A  true 
philosopher  never  chooses  the  middle  course ; 

38 


lie  needs  no  riches,  he  does  not  know  what 
to  do  with  money.  But  whether  he  turns 
to  the  right  or  to  the  left,  nothing  pleasant 
awaits  him. 

22 
Scratch  a  Russian  and  you  will  find  a 
Tartar.  Culture  is  an  age-long  develop- 
ment, and  sudden  grafting  of  it  upon  a  race 
rarely  succeeds.  To  us  in  Russia,  civili- 
sation came  suddenly,  whilst  we  were  still 
savages.  At  once  she  took  upon  herself  the 
responsibilities  of  a  tamer  of  wild  animals, 
first  working  with  decoys  and  baits,  and 
later,  when  she  felt  her  power,  with  threats. 
We  quickly  submitted.  In  a  short  time  we 
were  swallowing  in  enormous  doses  those 
poisons  which  Europe  had  been  gradually 
accustoming  herself  to,  gradually  assimil- 
ating through  centuries.  Thanks  to  which, 
the  transplanting  of  civilisation  into  Russia 
turns  out  to  be  no  mild  affair.  A  Russian 
had  only  to  catch  a  whiff  of  European 
atmosphere,  and  his  head  began  to  swim. 
He  interpreted  in  his  own  way,  savage-like, 
whatever  he  heard  of  western  success. 
Hearing  about  railways,  agricultural 
machines,  schools,  municipalities,  his  imagi- 
nation painted  miracles  :  universal  happi- 
ness,  boundless   freedom,   paradise,   wings, 

39 


etc.  And  the  more  Impossible  his  dreams, 
the  more  eager  he  was  to  believe  them  real. 
How  disillusioned  with  Europe  the  westerner 
Herzen  became,  after  living  for  years  on 
end  abroad  !  Yet,  with  all  his  acuteness, 
it  did  not  occur  to  him  that  Europe  was  not 
in  the  least  to  blame  for  his  disillusionment. 
Europe  had  dropped  miracles  ages  ago ; 
she  contented  herself  with  ideals.  It  is  we 
in  Russia  who  will  go  on  confusing  miracles 
with  ideals,  as  if  the  two  were  identical, 
whereas  they  have  nothing  to  do  with  each 
other.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  just  because 
Europe  had  ceased  to  believe  in  miracles, 
and  realised  that  all  human  problems  resolve 
down  to  mere  arrangements  here  on  earth, 
ideas  and  ideals  had  been  invented.  But 
the  Russian  bear  crept  out  of  his  hole  and 
strolled  to  Europe  for  the  elixir  of  life,  the 
flying  carpet,  the  seven-leagued  shoes,  and 
so  on,  thinking  in  all  his  naivete  that 
railways  and  electricity  were  signs  which 
clearly  proved  that  the  old  nurse  never 
told  a  lie  in  her  fairy  tales.  .  .  .  All  this 
happened  just  at  the  moment  when  Europe 
had  finally  made  away  with  alchemy  and 
astrology,  and  started  on  the  positive 
researches  resulting  in  chemistry  and 
astronomy. 

40 


^3 

The  first  assumption  of  all  metaphysics 

is,  that  by  dialectic  development  of  any 
concept  a  whole  system  can  be  evolved. 
Of  course  the  initial  concept,  the  a  priori^ 
is  generally  unsound,  so  there  is  no  need  to 
mention  the  deductions.  But  since  it  is 
very  difficult  in  the  realm  of  abstract 
thought  to  distinguish  a  lie  from  truth, 
metaphysical  systems  often  have  a  very 
convincing  appearance.  The  chief  defect 
only  appears  incidentally,  when  the  taste  for 
dialectic  play  becomes  blunted  in  man,  as 
it  did  in  Turgenev  towards  the  end  of  his 
life,  so  that  he  realises  the  uselessness  of 
philosophical  systems.  It  is  related  that  a 
famous  mathematician,  after  hearing  a 
musical  symphony  to  the  end,  inquired, 
"  What  does  it  prove  ?  "  Of  course,  it 
proves  nothing,  except  that  the  mathema- 
tician had  no  taste  for  music.  And  to  him 
who  has  no  taste  for  dialectics,  metaphysics 
can  prove  nothing,  either.  Therefore,  those 
who  are  interested  in  the  success  of  meta- 
physics must  always  encourage  the  opinion 
that  a  taste  for  dialectics  is  a  high  distinction 
in  a  man,  proving  the  loftiness  of  his  soul. 


41 


^4 

Man  is  used  to  having  convictions,  so 
there  we  are.  We  can  none  of  us  do  with- 
out our  hangers-on,  though  we  despise 
them  at  the  bottom  of  our  souls. 

Socrates  and  Plato  tried  to  determine 
under  the  shifting  change  of  appearance 
the  immutable,  unchanging  reality.  In  the 
Platonic  *'  ideas "  the  attempt  was  incar- 
nated. The  visible  reality,  never  true  to 
itself,  assuming  numberless  varying  forms, 
this  is  not  the  genuine  reality.  That  which 
is  real  must  be  constant.  Hence  the  ideas 
of  objects  are  real,  and  the  objects  them- 
selves are  fictitious.  Thus  the  root  of  the 
Platonic  philosophy  appears  to  be  a  funda- 
mental defect  in  human  reasoning — a  defect 
regarded  as  the  highest  merit.  It  is  difficult 
for  the  philosopher  to  get  a  good  grasp  of 
this  agitated,  capricious  life,  and  so  he 
decides  that  it  is  not  life  at  all,  but  a  fig- 
ment. Dialectics  is  supreme  only  over 
general  concepts — and  the  general  concepts 
are  promoted  to  an  ideal.  Since  Plato  and 
Socrates,  only  such  philosophers  have 
succeeded  largely  who  have  taught  that  the 
unchangeable  is  preferable  to  the  change- 

42 


able,  the  eternal  to  the  temporal.  The 
ordinary  individual,  who  lives  unconsciously, 
never  reckoning  his  spiritual  credit  against 
his  spiritual  debit,  naturally  regards  the 
philosopher  as  his  legitimate  book-keeper, 
keeper  of  the  soul's  accounts.  Already  in 
Greece  the  Athenian  youth  watched  with 
passionate  interest  the  dexterity  which 
Socrates  displayed  in  his  endeavour  to 
restore  by  means  of  dialectics  the  lost 
"  ultimate  foundations  "  of  human  conduct. 
Now  in  book-keeping,  as  we  are  aware,  not 
a  single  farthing  must  disappear  untraceably. 
Socrates  was  trying  to  come  up  to  expecta- 
tions. The  balance  between  man's  spiritual 
assets  and  liabilities  was  with  him  ideally 
established.  Perhaps  in  this  lies  the  secret 
of  that  strange  attraction  he  exerted  even 
over  such  volatile  and  unsteady  natures 
as  that  of  Alcibiades,  drawing  the  young  men 
to  him  so  that  they  were  attached  to  him 
with  all  their  soul.  Alcibiades  had  long 
since  lost  all  count  of  his  spiritual  estate, 
and  therefore  from  time  to  time  he  had  need 
to  recourse  to  Socrates,  who  by  speeches 
and  dissertations  could  bring  order  into 
chaos  and  harmony  into  the  spiritual  con- 
fusion of  his  young  friend.  Alcibiades 
turned    to    Socrates    to    be    relieved.     Of 

43 


course,  he  sought  relief  in  order  that  he 
might  begin  again  his  riotous  living  :  rest 
is  so  sweet  to  a  tired  man.  But  to  conclude 
that  because  Alcibiades  exhausted  himself, 
and  because  rest  is  sweet,  therefore  all  men 
must  rest,  this  is  absurd.  Yet  Socrates 
dictated  this  conclusion,  in  all  his  ideas. 
He  wished  that  all  men  should  rest,  rest 
through  eternity,  that  they  should  see  their 
highest  fulfilment  in  this  resting.  It  is 
easier  to  judge  of  Socrates  since  we  have 
Count  Tolstoy  with  us.  Probably  the  physi- 
ognomist Topir  would  say  of  Tolstoy  as  he 
said  of  Socrates,  that  there  are  many  evil 
propensities  lurking  in  him.  Topir  is  not 
here  to  speak,  but  Tolstoy  has  told  us 
himself  how  wicked  he  found  his  own  nature, 
how  he  had  to  struggle  with  it.  Tolstoy  is  not 
naturally  over-courageous  ;  by  long  effort 
he  has  trained  himself  to  be  bold.  How 
afraid  of  death  he  was  in  his  youth  And 
how  cleverly  he  could  conceal  that  fear. 
Later  on,  in  mature  age,  it  was  still  the  fear 
of  death  which  inspired  him  to  write  his 
confession.  He  was  conquering  that  fear, 
and  with  it  all  other  fears.  For  he  felt 
that,  since  fear  is  very  difficult  to  master 
in  oneself,  man  must  be  a  much  higher 
being  when  he  has  learned  not  to  be  afraid 

44 


any  more.  IMeanuliile,  who  knows  ?  Per- 
haps "  cowardice,"  that  miserable,  despic- 
able, much-abused  weakness  of  the  under- 
world, is  not  such  a  vice  after  all.  Perhaps 
it  is  even  a  virtue.  Think  of  Dostoevsky 
and  his  heroes,  think  of  Hamlet.  If  the 
underworld  man  in  us  were  afraid  of  nothing, 
if  Hamlet  was  naturally  a  gladiator,  then 
we  should  have  neither  tragic  poetry  nor 
philosophy.  It  is  a  platitude,  that  fear  of 
death  has  been  the  inspiration  of  philo- 
sophers. Numberless  quotations  could  be 
drawn  from  ancient  and  modern  writers, 
if  they  were  necessary.  Maybe  the  poetic 
daimon  of  Socrates,  which  made  him  wise, 
was  only  fear  personified.  Or  perhaps  it 
was  his  dark  dreams.  That  which  troubled 
him  by  day  did  not  quit  him  by  night. 
Even  after  the  sentence  of  death  Socrates 
dreamed  that  he  ought  to  engage  in  the  arts, 
so  in  order  not  to  provoke  the  gods  he  began 
to  compose  verses,  at  the  age  of  seventy. 
Tolstoy  also  at  the  age  of  fifty  began  to  per- 
form good  deeds,  to  which  performance  he 
had  previously  given  not  the  slightest  atten- 
tion. If  it  were  our  custom  nowadays  to 
express  ourselves  mythologically,  we  should 
no  doubt  hear  Tolstoy  telling  us  about 
his    daimon    or    his    dreams.     Instead    he 

45 


squares  his  accounts  with  science  and 
morality,  in  place  of  gods  or  demons.  Many 
a  present-day  Alcibiades,  who  laves  all  the 
week  in  the  muddy  waters  of  life,  comes  on 
Sundays  to  cleanse  himself  in  the  pure 
stream  of  Tolstoyian  ideas.  Book-keeping 
is  satisfied  with  this  modest  success,  and 
assumes  that  if  it  commands  universal 
attention  one  day  in  the  week,  then  obvi- 
ously it  is  the  sum  and  essence  of  life,  beyond 
which  man  needs  nothing.  On  the  same 
grounds  the  keepers  of  public  baths  could 
argue  that,  since  so  many  people  come  to 
them  on  Saturdays,  therefore  cleanliness  is 
the  highest  ambition  of  man,  and  during 
the  week  no  one  should  stir  at  all,  lest  he 
sweat  or  soil  himself. 

26 

In  an  old  French  writer,  a  contemporary 
of  Pascal,  I  came  across  the  following 
remarkable  words :  "  L'homme  est  si 
miserable  que  Vinconstance  avec  laquelle  il 
ahandonne  ses  desseins  est,  en  quelque  sortey 
sa  plus  grande  vertu  ;  parce  qu'il  temoigne 
par  la  qu'il  y  a  encore  en  lui  quelque  reste 
de  grandeur  qui  le  porte  a  se  degouter  de 
choses  qui  ne  meritent  pas  son  amour  et 
son   estime."     What    a   long   way   modern 

46 


thought  has  travelled  from  even  the  possi- 
bility of  such  an  assumption.  To  consider 
inconstancy  the  finest  human  virtue  !  Surely 
in  order  to  get  somewhere  in  life  it  is  neces- 
sary to  give  the  whole  self,  one's  whole 
energy  to  the  service  of  some  one  particular 
purpose.  In  order  to  be  a  virtuoso,  a  master 
of  one's  art  and  one's  instrument,  it  is 
necessary  with  a  truly  angelic  or  asinine 
patience  to  try  over  and  over  again,  dozens, 
hundreds,  thousands  of  times,  different 
ways  of  expressing  one's  ideas  or  moods, 
sparing  neither  labour,  nor  time,  nor  health. 
Everything  else  must  take  a  second  place. 
The  first  must  be  occupied  by  "  the  Art," 
Goncharov,  in  his  novel  Obryv,  cleverly 
relates  how  a  'cellist  struggled  all  day,  like 
a  fish  against  the  ice,  sawing  and  sawing 
away,  so  that  later  on,  in  the  evening,  he 
might  play  super-excellently  well.  And 
that  is  the  general  idea.  Objectionable, 
tedious,  irritating  labour, — this  is  the  condi- 
tion of  genius,  which  no  doubt  explains  the 
reason  why  men  so  rarely  achieve  anything. 
Genius  must  submit  to  cultivate  an  ass 
within  itself — the  condition  being  so  humili- 
ating that  man  will  seldom  take  up  the  job. 
The  majority  prefer  talent,  that  medium 
which  lies  between  genius  and  mediocrity. 

47 


And  many  a  time,  towards  the  end  of  life, 
does  the  genius  repent  of  his  choice.  "  It 
would  be  better  not  to  startle  the  world, 
but  to  live  at  one  with  it,"  says  Ibsen  in  his 
last  drama.  Genius  is  a  wretched,  blind 
maniac,  whose  eccentricities  are  condoned 
because  of  what  is  got  from  him.  And 
still  we  all  bow  to  persevering  talent,  to  the 
only  god  in  whom  we  moderns  believe,  and 
the  eulogy  of  inconstancy  will  awake  very 
little  sympathy  in  our  hearts.  Probably 
we  shall  not  even  regard  it  seriously. 

We  very  often  express  in  a  categorical 
form  a  judgment  of  which  we  do  not  feel 
assured,  we  even  lay  stress  on  its  absolute 
validity.  We  want  to  see  what  opposition 
it  will  arouse,  and  this  can  be  achieved 
only  by  stating  our  assumption  not  as  a 
tentative  suggestion,  which  no  one  will 
consider,  but  as  an  irrefutable,  all-important 
truth.  The  greater  the  value  an  assumption 
has  for  us,  the  more  carefully  do  we  conceal 
any  suggestion  of  its  improbability. 

28 

Literature  deals  with  the  most  difficult 
and  important  problems  of  existence,  and, 

48 


therefore,   litterateurs    consider  themselves 
the   most   important   of   people.    A   bank 
clerk,  who  is  always  handing  money  out, 
might    just    as    well    consider    himself    a 
millionaire.     The  high  estimate  placed  upon 
unexplained,  unsolved  questions  ought  really 
to  discredit  writers  in  our  eyes.     And  yet 
these  literary  men  are  so  clever,  so  cunning 
at  stating  their  own  case  and  revealing  the 
high  importance  of  their  mission,  that  in  the 
long  run  they  convince  everybody,  them- 
selves most  of  all.    This  last  event  is  surely 
owing    to    their    own    limited    intelligence. 
The    Romans    augurs    had    subtler,    more 
versatile  minds.     In  order  to  deceive  others, 
they  had  no  need  to  deceive  themselves. 
In  their  own  set  they  were  not  afraid  to 
talk  about  their  secrets,  even  to  make  fun 
of   them,   being  fully   confident   that   they 
could    easily    vindicate    themselves    before 
outsiders,  in  case  of  necessity,  and  pull  a 
solemn    face    befitting    the    occasion.     But 
our  writers  of  to-day,  before  they  can  lay 
their  improbable  assertions  before  the  public, 
must    inevitably    try    to    be    convinced   in 
their  own  minds.     Otherwise  they  cannot 
begin. 


49 


29 

"  The  writer  is  writing  away,  the  reader 

is  reading  away  " — the  writer  doesn't  care 
what  the  reader  is  after,  the  reader  doesn't 
care  what  the  writer  is  about.  Such  a 
state  of  things  hurt  Schedrin  very  much. 
He  would  have  liked  it  different ;  no  sooner 
has  the  writer  said  a  word,  than  the  reader 
at  once  scales  the  wall.  This  was  his 
ideal.  But  the  reader  is  by  no  means  so 
naive  as  all  that.  He  prefers  to  rest  easy, 
and  insists  that  the  writer  shall  climb  the 
wall  for  him.  So  those  authors  succeed 
with  the  public  who  write  "  with  their 
heart's  blood."  Conventional  tournaments, 
even  the  most  brilliant,  do  not  attract  the 
masses  any  more  than  the  connoisseurs. 
People  rush  to  see  a  fight  of  gladiators, 
where  awaits  them  a  scent  of  real,  hot, 
smoking  blood,  where  they  are  going  to 
see  real,  not  pretended  victims. 

Thus  many  writers,  like  gladiators,  shed 
their  blood  to  gratify  that  modern  Caesar, 
the  mob.  "  Salve,  Caesar,  morituri  te 
salutant !  " 

30 
Anton   Tchekov   tells   the   truth   neither 

out  of  love  or  respect  for  the  truth,  nor  yet 

because,   in   the   Kantian  manner,   a   high 

50 


duty  bids  him  never  to  tell  a  lie,  even  to 
escape  death.  Neither  has  he  the  impulse 
which  so  often  pushes  young  and  fiery  souls 
into  rashness  :  that  desire  to  stand  erect, 
to  keep  the  head  high.  On  the  contrary, 
Tchekhov  always  walks  v\dth  a  stoop,  his 
head  bent  down,  never  fixing  his  eyes  on  the 
heavens,  since  he  will  read  no  signs  there. 
If  he  tells  the  truth,  it  is  because  the  most 
reeking  lie  no  longer  intoxicates  him,  even 
though  he  swallow  it  not  in  the  modest 
doses  that  idealism  offers,  but  in  immoderate 
quantities,  thousand-gallon-barrel  gulps.  He 
would  taste  the  bitterness,  but  it  would  not 
make  his  head  turn,  as  it  does  Schiller's,  or 
Dostoevsky's,  or  even  Socrates',  whose  head, 
as  we  know,  could  stand  any  quantity  of 
wine,  but  went  spinning  with  the  most 
commonplace  lie. 

Noblesse  Oblige. — The  moment  of  obliga- 
tion, compulsion,  duty,  that  moment 
described  by  Kant  as  the  essential,  almost 
the  only  predicate  of  moral  concepts,  serves 
chiefly  to  indicate  that  Kant  was  modest 
in  himself  and  in  his  attitude  towards  all 
whom  he  addressed,  perceiving  in  all  men 
beings   subject   to  the  ennobling  effect  of 

51 


morality.  Nobles sg  oblige  is  a  motto  not 
for  the  aristocracy,  which  recognises  in  its 
privileges  its  own  instant  duties,  but  for 
the  self-made,  wealthy  parvenues  w^ho  pant 
for  an  illustrious  title.  They  have  been 
accustomed  to  telling  lies,  to  playing  pol- 
troon, swindling,  and  meanness,  and  the 
necessity  for  speaking  the  truth  impartially, 
for  bravely  facing  danger,  for  freely  giving  of 
their  fortunes  scares  them  beyond  measure. 
Therefore  it  is  necessary  that  they  should 
repeat  it  to  themselves  and  to  their  children, 
in  whose  veins  the  lying,  sneaking  blood 
still  runs,  hourly,  lest  they  forget  :  "  You 
must  not  tell  lies,  you  must  be  open,  mag- 
nanimous." It  is  silly,  it  is  incompre- 
hensible— but  "  noblesse  oblige." 

Homo  homini  lupus  is  one  of  the  most 
steadfast  maxims  of  eternal  morality.  In 
each  of  our  neighbours  we  fear  a  wolf. 
"  This  fellow  is  evil-minded,  if  he  is  not 
restrained  by  law  he  will  ruin  us,"  so  we 
think  every  time  a  man  gets  out  of  the  rut 
of  sanctified  tradition. 

The  fear  is  just.  We  are  so  poor,  so 
weak,  so  easily  ruined  and  destroyed  !  How 
can  we  help  being  afraid  !   And  yet,  behind 

52 


danger  and  menace  there  is  usually  hidden 
something  significant,  which  merits  our 
close  and  sympathetic  attention.  But  fear's 
eyes  are  big.  We  see  danger,  danger  only, 
we  build  up  a  fabric  of  morality  inside  which 
as  in  a  fortress  we  sit  out  of  danger  all  our 
lives.  Only  poets  have  undertaken  to  praise 
dangerous  people — Don  Juans,  Fausts, 
Tannhaiisers.  But  nobody  takes  the  poets 
seriously.  Common-sense  values  a  com- 
mercial-traveller or  a  don  much  more  highly 
than  a  Byron,  a  Goethe,  or  a  Moliere. 

33 

The  possibilities  which  open  out  before 

mankind  are  sufficiently  limited.  It  is  im- 
possible to  see  everything,  impossible  to 
know  everything,  impossible  to  rise  too 
high  above  the  earth,  impossible  to  penetrate 
too  deeply  down.  What  has  been  is  hidden 
away,  what  will  be  we  cannot  anticipate, 
and  we  know  for  certain  that  we  shall 
never  grow  wings.  Regularity,  immutably 
regular  succession  of  phenomena  puts  a 
term  to  our  efforts,  drives  us  into  a  regular, 
narrow,  hard-beaten  road  of  everyday 
life.  But  even  on  this  road  we  may  not 
wander  from  side  to  side.  We  must  watch 
our    feet,   consider    each    step,   since    the 

53 


moment  we  are  off  our  guard  disaster  is 
upon  us.  Another  life  is  conceivable,  how- 
ever :  life  in  which  the  word  disaster  does 
not  exist,  where  responsibility  for  one's 
actions,  even  if  it  be  not  completely  abolish- 
ed, at  least  has  not  such  a  deadly  and 
accidental  weight,  and  where,  on  the  other 
hand,  there  is  no  "  regularity,"  but  rather 
an  infinite  number  of  possibilities.  In  such 
a  life  the  sense  of  fear — most  disgraceful 
to  us — disappears.  There  the  virtues  are 
not  the  same  as  ours.  Fearlessness  in  face 
of  danger,  liberality,  even  lavishness  are 
considered  virtues  with  us,  but  they  are 
respected  without  any  grounds.  Socrates 
was  quite  right  when  he  argued  that  not 
all  courage,  but  only  the  courage  which 
measures  beforehand  the  risks  and  the 
chances  of  victory,  is  fully  justifiable.  To 
the  same  extent  those  economical,  careful 
people  who  condemn  lavishness  are  in  the 
right.  Fearlessness  and  lavishness  do  not 
suit  mortal  men,  rather  it  becomes  them 
to  tremble  and  to  count  every  penny, 
seeing  what  a  state  of  poverty  and  impotence 
they  exist  in.  That  is  why  these  two 
virtues  are  so  rarely  met  with,  and  when 
they  are  met,  why  they  arouse  such  super- 
stitious reverence  in  the  crowd.    "  This  man 

54 


fears  nothing  and  spares  nothing :  he  is 
probably  not  a  man,  but  a  demi-god,  perhaps 
even  a  god."  Socrates  did  not  believe 
in  gods,  so  he  wanted  to  justify  virtue 
by  reason.  Kant  also  did  not  believe  in 
God,  and  therefore  he  derived  his  morals 
from  "  Law."  But  if  there  is  God,  and  all 
men  are  the  children  of  God,  then  we  should 
be  afraid  of  nothing  and  spare  nothing. 
And  then  the  man  who  madly  dissipates 
his  own  life  and  fortunes,  and  the  lives  and 
fortunes  of  others,  is  more  right  than  the 
calculating  philosophers  who  vainly  seek 
to  regulate  mankind  on  earth. 

34 
Moral   people    are   the   most   revengeful 

of  mankind,  they  employ  their  morality 
as  the  best  and  most  subtle  weapon  of  ven- 
geance. They  are  not  satisfied  with  simply 
despising  and  condemning  their  neighbour 
themselves,  they  want  the  condemnation  to 
be  universal  and  supreme :  that  is,  that 
all  men  should  rise  as  one  against  the  con- 
demned, and  that  even  the  o-Qenier's  own 
conscience  shall  he  against  him.  Then  only 
are  they  fully  satisfied  and  reassured. 
Nothing  on  earth  but  morality  could  lead 
to  such  wonderful  results. 

55 


^5 

Inveterate  wickedness. — Heretics  were  often 
most  bitterly  persecuted  for  their  least 
digression  from  accepted  belief.  It  was 
just  their  obstinacy  in  trifles  that  irritated 
the  righteous  to  madness.  "  Why  can  they 
not  yield  on  so  trifling  a  matter  ?  They 
cannot  possibly  have  serious  cause  for 
opposition.  They  only  want  to  grieve  us,  to 
spite  us."  So  the  hatred  mounted  up,  piles 
of  faggots  and  torture  machines  appeared 
against  obdurate  wickedness. 

36 

I  do  not  know  where  I  came  across  the 
remark,  whether  in  Tolstoy  or  Turgenev, 
that  those  who  have  been  subjected  to 
trial  in  the  courts  of  justice  always  acquire 
a  particularly  noble  expression  of  face. 
iVlthough  logic  does  so  earnestly  recommend 
caution  in  the  forming  of  contradictory 
conclusions,  come  what  may  I  shall  for 
once  risk  a  deduction  :  a  noble  expression 
of  face  is  a  sign  that  a  man  has  been  under 
trial — but  certainly  not  a  trial  for  political 
crime — for  theft  or  bribe-taking. 


S6 


37 
The  most  important  and  significant  revela- 
tions come  into  the  world  naked,  without 
a  wordy  garment.  To  find  words  for  them 
is  a  delicate,  difficult  business,  a  whole 
art.  Stupidities  and  banalities,  on  the  con- 
trary, appear  at  once  in  ready-made  apparel, 
gaudy  even  if  shabby.  So  that  they  are 
ready  straight  away  to  be  presented  to 
the  public. 

A  strange  impatience  has  taken  possession 
of  Russian  writers  lately.  They  are  all 
running  a  race  after  the  "  ultimate  words." 
They  have  no  doubt  that  the  ultimate 
words  will  be  attained.  The  question  is, 
who  will  lay  hold  of  them  first. 

39 

The    appearance    of    Socrates    on    the 

philosophic  horizon  is  hailed  by  historians 
as  the  greatest  event.  Morals  were  begin- 
ning to  work  loose,  Athens  was  threatened 
with  ruin.  Socrates'  mission  was  to  put 
an  end  to  the  violent  oscillation  in  moral 
judgments  which  extreme  individualism 
on  the  one  hand  and  the  relativism  of  the 
sophists  on  the  other  had  set  up.  The 
great  teacher  did  all  he  could.    He  gave 

57 


up  his  usual  occupations  and  his  family 
life,  he  took  no  thought  for  the  morrow, 
he  taught,  taught,  taught — simple  people  or 
eminent,  wise  or  foolish,  ignorant  or  learned. 
Notwithstanding,  he  did  not  save  the 
country.  Under  Pericles,  Athens  flourished 
without  wisdom,  or  at  least  independently 
of  Socratic  wisdom.  After  Pericles,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  the  Socratic  teaching  found 
such  a  genius  as  Plato  to  continue  it,  Athens 
steadily  declined,  and  Aristotle  is  already 
master  to  the  son  of  Philip  of  Macedon. 
Whence  it  is  obvious  that  the  wisdom  of 
Socrates  had  not  saved  the  country,  and  as 
this  had  been  its  chief  object,  it  had  failed  in 
its  object,  and  therefore  was  not  worthy  of 
the  exaggerated  respect  it  received.  It 
is  necessary  to  find  some  justification  for 
philosophy  other  than  country-saving.  This 
would  be  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world. 
But  altogether  we  must  give  up  the  favourite 
device  of  the  philosophers,  of  looking  to 
find  in  the  well-being  of  society  the  raison 
(Tetre  of  philosophy.  At  the  best,  the  trick 
was  a  risky  one.  As  a  rule,  wisdom  goes 
one  way,  society  the  other.  They  are 
artificially  connected.  It  is  public  orators 
who  have  trained  both  the  philosophers 
and   the   masses   to   regard   as   worthy   of 

58 


attention  only  those  considerations  which 
have  absolutely  everything  on  their  side  : 
social  utility,  morality,  even  metaphysical 
wisdom.  .  .  .  Why  so  much  ?  Is  it  not 
sufficient  if  some  new  project  will  prove 
useful  ?  Why  try  to  get  the  sanction  of 
morality  and  metaphysics  ?  Nay,  once  the 
laws  of  morality  are  autonomous,  and  once 
ideas  are  allowed  to  stand  above  the  em- 
pirical needs  of  mankind,  it  is  impossible 
to  balance  ideas  and  morality  with  social 
requirements,  or  even  with  the  salvation 
of  the  country  from  ruin.  Per  eat  mundus, 
flat  philosophia.  If  Athens  was  ruined 
because  of  philosophy,  philosophy  is  not 
impugned.  So  the  autonomous  thinker 
should  hold.  But  de  facto,  a  thinker  does 
not  like  quarrelling  with  his  country. 

40 

When  a  writer  has  to  express  an  idea 
whose  foundation  he  has  not  been  able  to 
establish,  and  which  yet  is  dear  to  his  heart, 
so  that  he  earnestly  wishes  to  secure  its 
general  acceptance,  as  a  rule  he  interrupts  his 
exposition,  as  if  to  take  breath,  and  makes 
a  small,  or  at  times  a  serious  digression, 
during  which  he  proves  the  invalidity  of 
this    or    that    proposition,    often    without 

59 


any  reference  to  his  real  theme.  Having 
triumphantly  exposed  one  or  more 
absurdities,  and  thus  acquired  the  aplomb 
of  a  solid  expert,  he  returns  to  his  proper 
task,  calculating  that  now  he  will  inspire 
his  reader  with  greater  confidence.  His 
calculation  is  perfectly  justified.  The  reader 
is  afraid  to  attack  such  a  skilled  dialectician, 
and  prefers  to  agree  rather  than  to  risk 
himself  in  argument.  Not  even  the  greatest 
intellects,  particularly  in  philosophy,  disdain 
such  stratagems.  The  idealists,  for  example, 
before  expounding  their  theories,  turn  and 
rend  materialism.  The  materialists,  we 
remember,  at  one  time  did  the  same  with 
the  idealists,  and  achieved  a  vast  success. 

Theories  of  sequence  and  consequence 
are  binding  only  upon  the  disciples,  not 
upon  the  masters.  Fathers  of  great  ideas 
tend  to  be  very  careless  about  their  progeny, 
giving  very  little  heed  to  their  future 
career.  The  offspring  of  one  and  the  same 
philosopher  frequently  bear  such  small 
resemblance  to  one  another,  that  it  is 
impossible  to  discern  the  family  connection. 
Conscientious  disciples,  wasting  away  under 
the  arduous  effort  to  discover  that  which 

60 


does  not  exist,  are  brought  to  despair  of 
their  task.  Having  got  an  inkling  of  the 
truth  concerning  their  difficulty,  they  give 
up  the  job  for  ever,  they  cease  their  attempt 
at  reconciling  glaring  contradictions.  But 
then  they  only  insist  the  harder  upon  the 
necessity  for  studying  the  philosophers, 
studying  them  minutely,  circumstantially, 
historically,  philologically  even.  So  the 
history  of  philosophy  is  born,  which  now  is 
taking  the  place  of  philosophy.  Certainly 
the  history  of  philosophy  may  be  an  exact 
science,  since  by  means  of  historical  research 
it  is  often  possible  to  decide  what  exactly 
a  certain  philosopher  did  mean,  and  in 
what  sense  he  employed  his  peculiar  terms. 
And  seeing  that  there  have  been  a  fair 
number  of  philosophers,  the  business  of 
clearing  them  all  up  is  a  respectable  under- 
taking, and  deserves  the  name  of  a  science. 
For  a  good  translation  or  a  commentary  on 
the  chief  works  of  Kant  a  man  may  be  given 
the  degree  of  doctor  of  philosophy,  and 
henceforth  recognised  as  one  who  is  initiated 
in  the  profundities  of  the  secrets  of  the 
universe.  Then  why  ever  should  anybody 
think  out  new  systems — or  even  write 
them  ? 


6i 


42. 

The  raptures  of  creative  activity  ! — empty 
words,  invented  by  men  who  never  had  an 
opportunity  of  judging  from  their  own 
experience,  but  who  derive  their  conclusion 
syllogistically  :  "  if  a  creation  gives  us  such 
delight,  what  must  the  creator  himself 
experience  !  "  Usually  the  creator  feels  only 
vexations.  Every  creation  is  created  out  of 
the  Void.  At  the  best,  the  maker  finds 
himself  confronted  with  a  formless,  meaning- 
less, usually  obstinate  and  stiff  matter, 
which  yields  reluctantly  to  form.  And  he 
does  not  know  how  to  begin.  Every  time  a 
new  thought  is  gendered,  so  often  must  that 
new  thought,  which  for  the  moment  seems  so 
brilliant  and  fascinating,  be  thrown  aside  as 
worthless.  Creative  activity  is  a  continual 
progression  from  failure  to  failure,  and  the 
condition  of  the  creator  is  usually  one  of 
uncertainty,  mistrust,  and  shattered  nerves. 
The  more  serious  and  original  the  task  which 
a  man  sets  himself,  the  more  tormenting 
is  the  self-misgiving.  For  this  reason  even 
men  of  genius  cannot  keep  up  the  creative 
activity  to  the  last.  As  soon  as  they  have 
acquired  their  technique,  they  begin  to 
repeat  themselves,  well  aware  that  the 
public  willingly  endures  the  monotony  of  a 

62 


favourite,  even  finds  virtue  in  it.  Every 
connoisseur  of  art  is  satisfied  if  he  recognises 
in  a  new  work  the  accepted  "  manner  "  of  the 
artist.  Few  realise  that  the  acquiring  of  a 
manner  is  the  beginning  of  the  end.  Artists 
realise  well  enough,  and  would  be  glad  to  be 
rid  of  their  manner,  which  seems  to  them 
a  hackneyed  affair.  But  this  requires  too 
great  a  strain  on  their  powers,  new  torments, 
doubts,  new  groping.  He  who  has  once  been 
through  the  creative  raptures  is  not  easily 
tempted  to  try  again.  He  prefers  to  turn 
out  work  according  to  the  pattern  he  has 
evolved,  calmly  and  securely,  assured  of  his 
results.  Fortunately  no  one  except  himself 
knows  that  he  is  not  any  longer  a  creator. 
What  a  lot  of  secrets  there  are  in  the  world, 
and  how  easy  it  is  to  keep  one's  secret  safe 
from  indiscreet  glances  ! 


43 
A  writer  works  himself  up  to  a  pitch  of 

ecstasy,  otherwise  he  does  not  take  up  his 

pen.  But  ecstasy  is  not  so  easily  distinguished 

from  other  kinds  of  excitement.     And  as  a 

writer  is  always  in  haste  to  write,  he  has 

rarely  the  patience  to  wait,  but  at  the  first 

promptings   of   animation    begins    to   pour 

himself  forth.     So  in  the  name  of  ecstasy  we 

63 


are  nflered  siicli  quantities  of  banal,  by  no 
means  ecstatic  effusions.  Particularly  easy 
it  is  to  confound  with  ecstasy  that  very 
common  sort  of  spring-time  liveliness  which 
in  our  language  is  well-named  calf-rapture. 
And  calf-rapture  is  much  more  acceptable  to 
the  public  than  true  inspiration  or  genuine 
transport.     It  is  easier,  more  familiar. 

44 

A  school  axiom  :  logical  scepticism  refutes 

itself,  since  the  denial  of  the  possibility  of 
positive  knowledge  is  already  an  aihrmation. 
But,  in  the  first  place,  scepticism  is  not  bound 
to  be  logical,  for  it  has  no  desire  whatever  to 
gratify  that  dogma  which  raises  logic  to  the 
position  of  law.  Secondly,  where  is  the 
philosophic  theory  which,  if  carried  to  its 
extreme,  would  not  destroy  itself  ?  There- 
fore, why  is  more  demanded  from  scepticism 
than  from  other  systems  ?  especially  from 
scepticism,  which  honestly  avows  that  it 
cannot  give  that  which  all  other  theories 
claim  to  give. 

The  Aristotelian  logic,  which  forms  the 
chief  component  in  modern  logic,  arose,  as 
we  know,  as  a  result  of  the  permanent 
controversies  which  were  such  sport  to  the 

64 


Greeks.  In  order  to  argue,  it  is  indeed 
necessary  to  have  a  common  ground ;  in 
other  words,  to  agree  about  the  rules  of  the 
game.  But  in  our  day  dialectic  tournaments, 
like  all  other  bouts  of  contention,  no  longer 
attract  people.  Thus  logic  may  be  relegated 
to  the  background. 

In  Gogol's  Portrait,  the  artist  despairs 
at  the  thought  that  he  has  sacrificed  art  for 
the  sake  of  "  life."  In  Ibsen's  drama, 
When  We  Dead  Awaken,  there  is  also  an 
artist,  who  has  become  world-famous,  and 
who  repents  that  he  has  sacrificed  his  life — 
to  art.  Now,  choose — which  of  the  two 
ways  of  repentance  do  you  prefer  ? 

.  47 
M«n  is  often  quite  indifferent  to  success 

whilst  he  has  it.     But   once  he  loses  his 

power  over  people,  he  begins  to  fret.    And 

— vice  versa. 

Turgenev's  Insarov  strikes  the  imagina- 
tion of  Elena  because  he  is  a  man  preparing 
for  battle.  She  prefers  him  to  Shubin  the 
painter,  or  to  Berseniev  the  savant.     Since 

E  65 


ancient  days  women  have  looked  with  favour 
on  warriors  rather  than  on  peaceful  men. 
Had  Turgenev  invested  that  idea  with  less 
glamour,  he  would  probably  not  have  become 
the  ideal  of  the  young.  Who  does  not  get  a 
thrill  from  Elena  and  her  elect  ?  Who  has  not 
felt  the  fascination  of  Turgenev's  women ! 
And  yet  all  of  them  give  themselves  to  the 
strong  male.  With  such  "  superior  people,"  as 
with  beasts,  the  males  fight  with  each  other, 
the  woman  looks  on,  and  when  it  is  over,  she 
submits  herself  the  slave  of  the  conqueror. 

A  caterpillar  is  transformed  into  a 
chrysalis,  and  for  a  long  time  lives  in  a 
warm,  quiet  little  world.  Perhaps  if  it  had 
human  consciousness  it  would  declare  that 
that  world  was  the  best,  perhaps  the  only  one 
possible  to  live  in.  But  there  comes  a  time 
when  some  unknown  influence  causes  the 
little  creature  to  begin  the  work  of  destruc- 
tion. If  other  caterpillars  could  see  it  how 
horrified  they  would  be,  revolted  to  the 
bottom  of  their  soul  by  the  awful  work  in 
which  the  insurgent  is  engaged.  They 
would  call  it  immoral,  godless,  they  would 
begin  to  talk  about  pessimism,  scepticism,  and 
so  on.    To  destroy  what  has  cost  such  labour 

66 


to  construct !  Why,  what  is  wrong  with 
this  complete,  cosy,  comfortable  little  world  ? 
To  keep  it  intact  they  call  to  their  aid  sacred 
morality  and  the  idealistic  theory  of  know- 
ledge. Nobody  cares  that  the  caterpillar 
has  grown  wings,  that  when  it  has  nibbled  its 
old  nest  away  it  will  fly  out  into  space — 
nobody  gives  a  thought  to  this. 

Wings — that  is  mysticism  ;  self-nibbling 
— this  is  actuality.  Those  who  are  engaged 
in  siiih.  actuality  deserve  torture  and  execu- 
tion. And  there  are  plenty  of  prisons  and 
voluntary  hangmen  on  the  bright  earth. 
The  majority  of  books  are  prisons,  and  great 
authors  are  not  bad  hangmen. 

Nietzsche  and  Dostoevsky  seem  to  be 
typical  "  inverted  simulators,"  if  one  may 
use  the  expression.  They  imitated  spiritual 
sanity,  although  they  were  spiritually  insane. 
They  knew  their  morbidity  well  enough,  but 
they  exhibited  their  disease  only  to  that 
extent  where  freakishness  passes  for 
originality.  With  the  sensitiveness  peculiar 
to  all  who  are  in  constant  danger,  they  never 
went  beyond  the  limits.  The  axe  of  the 
guillotine  of  public  opinion  hung  over  them  : 
one    awkward    move,    and    the    execution 

61 


automatically  takes  place.  But  they  knew 
how  to  avoid  unwarrantable  moves. 

.  SI 

The  so-called  ultimate  questions  troubled 

mankind  in  the  world's  dawn  as  badly  as  they 
trouble  us  now.  Adam  and  Eve  wanted 
*'  to  know,"  and  they  plucked  the  fruit  at 
their  risk.  Cain,  whose  sacrifice  did  not 
please  God,  raised  his  hand  against  his 
brother  :  and  it  seemed  to  him  he  committed 
murder  in  the  name  of  justice,  in  vindication 
of  his  own  injured  rights.  Nobody  has  ever 
been  able  to  understand  why  God  preferred 
Abel's  sacrifice  to  that  of  Cain.  In  our  own 
day  Sallieri  repeats  Cain's  vengeance  and 
poisons  his  friend  and  benefactor  Mozzart, 
according  to  the  poem  of  Poushkin.  "  All 
say,  there  is  no  justice  on  earth  ;  but  there  is 
no  justice  up  above  :  this  is  as  clear  to  me  as 
a  simple  scale  of  music."  No  man  on  earth 
can  fail  to  recognise  in  these  words  his  own 
tormenting  doubts.  The  outcome  is  creative 
tragedy,  which  for  some  mysterious  reason 
has  been  considered  up  till  now  as  the  highest 
form  of  human  creation.  Everything  is 
being  unriddled  and  explained.  If  we  com- 
pare our  knowledge  with  that  of  the  ancients, 
we  appear  very  wise.  But  we  are  no  nearer 
68 


to  solving  the  riddle  of  eternal  justice  than 
Cain  was.  Progress,  civilisation,  all  the 
conquests  of  the  human  mind  have  brought 
us  nothing  new  here.  Like  our  ancestors, 
we  stand  still  with  fright  and  perplexity 
before  ugliness,  disease,  misery,  senility, 
death.  All  that  the  wise  men  have  been 
able  to  do  so  far  is  to  turn  the  earthly  horrors 
into  problems.  We  are  told  that  perhaps  all 
that  is  horrible  only  appears  horrible,  that 
perhaps  at  the  end  of  the  long  journey  some- 
thing new  awaits  us.  Perhaps  !  But  the 
modern  educated  man,  with  the  wisdom  of 
all  the  centuries  of  mankind  at  his  command, 
knows  no  more  about  it  than  the  old  singer 
who  solved  universal  problems  at  his  own 
risk.  We,  the  children  of  a  moribund 
civilisation,  we,  old  men  from  our  birth,  in 
this  respect  are  as  young  as  the  first  man. 

They  say  it  is  impossible  to  set  a  bound 
between  the  "  I "  and  society.  Naivete  I 
Crusoes  are  to  be  found  not  only  on  desert 
islands.  They  are  there,  in  populous  cities. 
It  is  true  they  are  not  clad  in  skins,  they 
have  no  dark  Fridays  in  attendance,  and  so 
nobody  recognises  them.  But  surely  Friday 
and  a  fur  jacket  do  not  make  a  Crusoe. 

69 


Loneliness,  desertion,  a  boundless,  shoreless 
sea,  on  which  no  sail  hasrisen  for  tens  of  years, 
— do  not  many  of  our  contemporaries  live 
in  such  a  circumstance  ?  And  are  they  not 
Crusoes,  to  whom  the  rest  of  people  have 
become  a  vague  reminiscence,  barely  dis- 
tinguishable from  a  dream  ? 

53 
To  be  irremediably  unhappy — this  is 
shameful.  An  irremediably  unhappy  person 
is  outside  the  laws  of  the  earth.  Any 
connection  between  him  and  society  is 
severed  finally.  And  since,  sooner  or  later, 
every  individual  is  doomed  to  irremediable 
unhappiness,  the  last  word  of  philosophy  is 
loneliness. 

54 
"  It   is   better   to  be  an   unhappy   man, 

than  a  happy  pig."  The  utilitarians  hoped 
by  this  golden  bridge  to  get  over  the  chasm 
which  separates  them  from  the  promised 
land  of  the  ideal.  But  psychology  stepped 
in  and  rudely  interrupted  :  ^here  are  no 
unhappy  people,  the  unhappy  ones  are  all 
pigs.  Dostoevsky's  philosopher  of  the  under- 
world, Raskolnikov,  also  Hamlet,  and  such- 
like, are  not  simply  unhappy  men  whose 
fate  might  be  esteemed,  or  even  preferred 

70 


before  sorrie  happy  fates ;  they  are  simply 
unhappy  swine.  And  they  themselves  are 
principally  aware  of  it  ....  He  that  hath 
ears  to  hear,  let  him  hear. 

55 

If  you  want  people  to  envy  you  your 
sorrow  or  your  shame,  look  as  if  you  were 
proud  of  it.  If  you  have  only  enough  of 
the  actor  in  you,  rest  assured,  you  will 
become  the  hero  of  the  day.  Since  the 
parable  of  the  Pharisee  and  the  publican  was 
uttered,  v/hat  a  lot  of  people  who  could 
not  fulfil  their  sacred  duties  pretended 
to  be  publicans  and  sinners,  and  so  aroused 
sympathy,  even  envy. 

Philosophers  dearly  love  to  call  their 
utterances  "  truths,"  since  in  that  guise 
they  become  binding  upon  us  all.  But 
each  philosopher  invents  his  own  truths. 
Which  means  that  he  asks  his  pupils  to 
deceive  themselves  in  the  way  he  shows, 
but  that  he  reserves  for  himself  the  option 
of  deceiving  himself  in  his  own  way.  Why  ? 
Why  not  allow  everyone  to  deceive  him- 
self just  as  he  likes  ? 


71 


r' 


57 
When  Xanthippe  poured  slops  over  Soc- 
rates, as  he  returned  from  his  philosophical 
occupations,  tradition  says  that  he  observed  : 
"  After  a  storm  there  is  always  rain." 
Would  it  not  be  more  worthy  (not  of  the 
philosopher,  but  of  philosophy)  to  say  : 
\fter  one's  philosophical  exercise,  one 
feels  as  if  one  had  had  slops  emptied  over 
one's  head.  And  therefore  Xanthippe  did 
but  give  outward  expression  to  what  had 
taken  place  in  Socrates'  soul.  Symbols 
are  not  always  beautiful. 

S8 
From  the  notes  of  an  underworld  man — 
"  I  read  little,  I  write  little,  and,  it  seems 
to  me,  I  think  little.  He  who  is  ill-disposed 
towards  me  will  say  that  this  shows  a  great 
defect  in  my  character,  perhaps  he  will 
call  me  lazy,  an  Oblomov,  and  will  repeat 
the  copy-book  maxim  that  idleness  is  the 
mother  of  all  the  vices.  A  friend,  on  the 
other  hand,  will  say  it  is  only  a  temporary 
state,  that  perhaps  I  am  not  quite  well — 
in  short,  he  will  find  random  excuses  for 
me,  more  with  the  idea  of  consoling  me  than 
of  speaking  the  truth.  But  for  my  part, 
I  say  let  us  wait.  If  it  turns  out  at  the  end 
72 


of  my  life  that  I  have  *  done '  not  less 
than  others — why,  then — it  will  mean  that 
idleness  may  be  a  virtue." 

Borne,  a  contemporary  of  Heine,  was 
very  much  offended  when  his  enemies 
insisted  on  explaining  his  misanthropic  out- 
pourings as  the  result  of  a  stomach  and 
liver  disease.  It  seemed  to  him  much 
nobler  and  loftier  to  be  indignant  and 
angry  because  of  the  triumph  of  evil  on 
earth,  than  because  of  the  disorders  of 
his  own  physical  organs.  Sentimentality 
apart — was  he  right,  and  is  it  really  nobler  ? 

60 

A  real  writer  disdains  to  repeat  from 
hearsay  events  which  he  has  not  witnessed. 
It  seems  to  him  tedious  and  humiliating 
to  tell  "  in  his  own  words,"  like  a  school- 
boy, things  which  he  has  fished  out  of 
another  man's  books.  But  there — how  can 
we  expect  him  to  stoop  to  such  insig- 
nificance ! 

61 

Whilst  conscience  stands  between  the 
educated  and  the  lower  classes,  as  the  only 
possible  mediator,  there  can  be  no  hope  for 

73 


mutual  understanding.  Conscience  demands 
sacrifices,  nothing  but  sacrifices.  It  says 
to  the  educated  man  :  *'  You  are  happy, 
well-off,  learned — the  people  are  poor,  un- 
happy, ignorant ;  renounce  therefore  your 
well-being,  or  else  soothe  your  conscience 
with  suave  speeches."  Only  he  who  has 
nothing  to  sacrifice,  nothing  to  lose,  having 
lost  everything,  can  hope  to  approach  the 
people  as  an  equal. 

This  is  why  Dostoevsky  and  Nietzsche 
were  not  afraid  to  speak  in  their  own  name, 
and  did  not  feel  compelled  either  to  stretch 
up  or  to  stoop  down  in  order  to  be  on  a 
level  with  men. 

62 

Not  to  know  what  you  want  is  considered 
a  shameful  weakness.  To  confess  it  is 
to  lose  for  ever  not  only  the  reputation  of 
a  writer,  but  even  of  a  man.  None  the 
less,  "  conscience "  demands  such  a  con- 
fession. True,  in  this  case  as  in  most 
others  the  demands  of  conscience  are  satisfied 
only  when  they  incur  no  very  dire  conse- 
quences. Leaving  aside  the  fact  that  people 
are  no  longer  terrified  of  the  once-so-terrible 
public  opinion  (the  public  has  been  tamed, 
it  listens  with  reverence  to  what  is  told  to 

74 


it,  and  never  dares  judge) — the  admission 
"  I  do  not  know  myself  what  I  want " 
seems  to  offer  a  guarantee  of  something 
important.  Those  who  know  what  they 
want  generally  want  trifles,  and  attain 
to  inglorious  ends :  riches,  fame,  or  at 
the  best,  progress  or  a  philosophy  of  their 
own.  Even  now  it  is  sometimes  not  a 
sin  to  laugh  at  such  wonders,  and  may-be 
the  time  is  coming  when  a  rehabilitated 
Hamlet  will  announce,  not  with  shame 
but  with  pride  :  "  I  don't  in  the  least  know 
what  I  want."  And  the  crowd  will  applaud 
him,  for  the  crowd  always  applauds  heroes 
and  proud  men. 

Fear  of  death  is  explained  conclusively 
by  the  desire  for  self-preservation.  But 
at  that  rate  the  fear  should  disappear  in 
old  and  sick  people,  who  ought  by  nature  to 
look  with  indifference  on  death.  Whereas 
the  horror  of  death  is  present  in  all  living 
things.  Does  not  this  suggest  that  there 
is  still  some  other  reason  for  the  dread, 
and  that  even  where  the  pangs  of  horror 
cannot  save  a  man  from  his  end,  still  it  is 
a  necessary  and  purposeful  anguish  ?  The 
natural-scientific  explanation  here,  as  usual, 

75 


stops  halfway,  and  fails  to  lead  the  human 
mind  to  the  promised  goal. 

...  64 

Moral  indignation  is  only  a  refined  form 
of  anf.ieni  vengeance.  Once  anger  spoke 
with  daggers,  now  words  will  do.  And 
happy  is  the  man  who,  loving  and  thirsting  to 
chastise  his  offender,  yet  is  appeased  when 
the  offence  is  punished.  On  account  of  the 
gratification  it  offers  to  the  passions, morality^ 
which  has  replaced  bloody  chastisement, 
will  not  easily  lose  its  charm.  But  there 
are  offences,  deep,  unforgettable  offences, 
inflicted  not  by  people,  but  by  "Jaws  of 
nature."  How  are  v/e  to  settle  these  ? 
Here  neither  dagger  nor  indignant  word  will 
serve.  Therefore,  for  him  who  has  once 
run  foul  of  the  laws  of  nature  morality 
sinks,  for  ever  or  for  a  time,  into  subsidiary 
importance. 

Fatalism  frightens  people  particularly  in 
that  form  which  holds  it  just  to  say,  of 
anything  that  happens,  or  has  happened,  or 
will  happen :  be  it  so !  How  can  one 
acquiesce  in  the  actuality  of  life,  when  it 
contains  so  many  horrors  ?  But  amor  fati 
does    not    imply    eternal    acquiescence    in 

76 


actuality.  It  is  only  a  truce,  for  a  more  or 
less  lasting  period.  Time  is  needed  in  which 
to  estimate  the  forces  and  intentions  of  the 
enemy.  Under  the  mask  of  friendship  the 
old  enmity  persists,  and  an  awful  revenge  is 
in  preparation. 

In  the  "  ultimate  questions  of  life  "  we  are 
not  a  bit  nearer  the  truth  than  our  ancestors 
were.  Everybody  knows  it,  and  yet  so 
many  go  on  talking  about  infinity,  without 
any  hope  of  ever  saying  anything.  It  is 
evident  that  a  result — in  the  usual  accept- 
ance of  the  word — is  not  necessary.  In  the 
very  last  resort  we  trust  to  instinct,  even  in 
the  field  of  philosophy,  where  reason  is 
supposed  to  reign  supreme,  uttering  its 
eternal  "  Why  ?  "  "  Why  ?  "  laughs  at  all 
possible  "  becauses."  Instinct,  however,  does 
not  mock.  It  simply  ignores  the  whys,  and 
leads  us  by  impossible  ways  to  ends  that  our 
divine  reason  would  hold  absurd,  if  it  could 
only  see  them  in  time.  But  reason  is  a 
laggard,  without  much  foresight,  and  there- 
fore, when  we  have  run  up  to  an  unexpected 
conclusion,  nothing  remains  but  for  reason 
to  accept :  or  even  to  justify,  to  exalt  the 
new    event.      And   therefore, — "  reality    is 


reasonable,"  say  the  philosophers :  reason- 
able, not  only  when  they  draw  their  philo- 
sophic salaries,  as  the  socialists,  and  with  them 
our  philosopher  \ladimir  Soloviov,  explain; 
but  still  reasonable  even  when  philosophers 
have  their  maintenance  taken  away  from 
them.  Nay,  in  the  latter  case,  particularly 
in  the  latter  case,  in  spite  of  the  socialists 
and  VI.  Soloviov,  reality  shows  herself  most 
reasonable.  A    philosopher    persecuted, 

downtrodden,  hungry,  cold,  receiving  no 
salary,  is  nearly  always  an  extreme  fatalist — 
although  this,  of  course,  by  no  means  hinders 
him  from  abusing  the  existing  order. 
Theories  of  sequence  and  consequence,  as 
we  already  know,  are  binding  only  upon 
disciples,  whose  single  virtue  lies  in  their 
scrupulous,  logical  developing  of  the  master's 
idea.  But  masters  themselves  invent  ideas, 
and,  therefore,  have  the  right  to  substitute 
one  for  another.  The  sovereign  power  which 
proclaims  a  law  has  the  same  power  to 
abolish  it.  But  the  duty  of  the  subordinate 
consists  in  the  praise,  in  the  consequential 
interpretation  and  the  strict  observance  of 
the  dictates  of  the  higher  will. 


78 


^7 

The  Pharisee  in  the  parable  fulfilled  all  that 

religion  demanded  of  him  :  kept  his  fasts, 
paid  his  tithes,  etc.  Had  he  a  right  to  be 
pleased  with  his  own  piety,  and  to  despise  the 
erring  publican  ?  Everybody  thought  so, 
including  the  Pharisee  himself.  The  judg- 
ment of  Christ  came  as  the  greatest  surprise  to 
him.  He  had  a  clear  conscience.  He  did  not 
merely  pretend  before  others  to  be  righteous, 
he  himself  believed  in  his  own  righteousness. 
And  suddenly  he  turns  out  guilty,  awfully 
guilty.  But  if  the  conscience  of  a  righteous 
man  does  not  help  him  to  distinguish  between 
good  and  evil,  how  is  he  to  avoid  sin  ?  What 
does  Kant's  moral  law  mean,  that  law  which 
was  as  consoling  as  the  starry  sky  ?  Kant 
lived  his  life  in  profound  peace  of  soul,  he 
met  his  death  quietly,  in  the  consciousness 
of  his  own  purity.  But  if  Christ  came  again, 
he  might  condemn  the  serene  philosopher  for 
his  very  serenity.  For  the  Pharisee,  we 
repeat,  was  righteous,  if  purity  of  inten- 
tions, together  with  a  firm  readiness  to  fulfil 
everything  which  appears  to  him  in  the  light 
of  duty,  be  righteousness  in  a  man. 


79 


68 
We  jeer  and  laugh  at  a  man  not  because  he 
is  ridiculous,  but  because  we  want  to  have  a 
laugh  out  of  him.  In  the  same  way  we  are 
indignant,  not  because  this  or  the  other  act 
is  revolting  to  us,  but  because  we  want  to  let 
off  our  steam.  But  it  does  not  follow  from 
this  that  we  ought  always  to  be  calm  and 
smooth.  Woe  to  him  who  would  try  to 
realise  the  ideal  of  justice  on  earth. 

We  think  with  peculiar  intensity  during 
the  hard  moments  of  our  life — we  write  when 
we  have  nothing  else  to  do.  So  that  a  writer 
can  only  communicate  something  of  import- 
ance in  reproducing  the  past.  When  we  are 
driven  to  think,  we  have  unfortunately  no 
mind  to  write,  which  accounts  for  the  fact 
that  books  are  never  more  than  a  feeble  echo 
of  what  a  man  has  gone  through. 

70 

Tchekhov  has  a  story  called  Misfortune 
which  well  illustrates  the  difficulty  a  man 
finds  in  adapting  himself  to  a  new  truth,  if 
this  truth  threaten  the  security  of  his 
condition.  The  Merchant  Avdeyer  does  not 
believe  that  he  is  condemned,  that  he  has 

80 


been  brought  to  trial,  and  tried,  and  found 
guilty,  for  his  irregularities  in  a  public  bank. 
He  still  thinks  the  verdict  is  yet  to  come — he 
still  waits.  In  the  world  of  learning  some- 
thing like  this  is  happening.  The  educated 
have  become  so  accustomed  to  think  them- 
selves not  guilty,  perfectly  in  the  right,  that 
they  do  not  admit  for  a  moment  even  now 
that  they  are  brought  to  court.  When 
threatening  voices  reach  them,  calling  them 
to  give  an  account  of  themselves,  they  only 
suspiciously  shrug  their  shoulders.  "  All  this 
will  pass  away  " — they  think.  Well,  when 
at  last  they  are  convinced  that  misfortune 
has  befallen  them,  they  will  probably  begin 
to  justify  themselves,  like  Avdeyer,  declaring 
that  they  cannot  even  read  printed  matter 
sufficiently  .well.  As  yet,  they  pass  for 
respectable,  wise,  experienced,  omniscient 
men. 

71 
If  a  man  had  come  to  Dostoevsky  and  said 
to  him,  "  I  am  hopelessly  unhappy,"  the 
great  artist  in  human  misery  would  probably, 
at  the  bottom  of  his  soul,  have  laughed  at 
the  naivete  of  the  poor  creature.  May  one 
confess  such  things  of  oneself  ?  May  one  go 
to  such  lengths  of  complaint,  and  still  expect 
consolation  from  his  neighbour  ? 

81 


Hopelessness  is  the  most  solemn  and 
supreme  moment  in  life.  Till  that  point  we 
have  been  assisted — now  we  are  left  to  our- 
selves. Previously  we  had  to  do  with  men 
and  human  laws — now  with  eternity,  and 
with  the  complete  absence  of  laws.  Is  it  not 
obvious  ? 

Byelinsky,  in  his  famous  letter,  accuses 
Gogol,  among  other  things,  that  in  his 
Correspondence  with  Friends ^  he,  Gogol, 
succumbs  to  the  fear  of  death,  of  devils,  and 
of  hell.  I  find  the  accusation  just :  Gogol 
definitely  feared  death,  demons,  and  hell. 
The  point  is,  whether  it  is  not  right  to  fear 
these  things,  and  whether  fearlessness  would 
be  a  proof  of  the  high  development  of  a 
man's  soul.  Schopenhauer  asserts  that 
death  inspired  philosophy.  All  the  best 
poetry,  all  the  wonderful  mythology  of  the 
ancients  and  of  modern  peoples  have  for 
their  source  the  fear  of  death.  Only  modern 
science  forbids  men  to  fear,  and  insists  on  a 
tranquil  attitude  towards  death.  So  we 
arrive  at  utilitarianism  and  the  positivist 
philosophy.  If  you  wish  to  be  rid  of  both 
these  creeds  you  must  be  allowed  to  think 
again  of  death,  and  without  shame  to  fear 
hell  and  its  devils.     It  may  be  there  is  really 


a  certain  justification  for  concealing  fears  of 
such  kind :  in  tlje  ability  to  conceal  one's 
agitation  at  moments  of  great  danger  there 
is  a  true  beauty.  But  to  deaden  human 
sensitiveness  and  to  keep  the  human  intelli- 
gence within  the  bounds  of  perception,  such 
a  task  can  have  charms  only  for  a  petty 
creature.  Happily,  mankind  has  no  means 
by  which  to  perform.on  itself  such  monstrous 
castration.  Persecuted  Eros,  it  is  true,  has 
hidden  himself  from  the  eyes  of  his  enemies, 
but  he  has  never  abjured  himself  ;  and  even 
the  strictest  mediaeval  monks  could  not 
completely  tear  out  their  hearts  from  their 
breasts.  Similarly  with  the  aspiration 
towards  the  infinite  :  science  persecuted  it 
and  put  a  veto  on  it.  But  laboratory 
workers  themselves,  sooner  or  later,  recover 
their  senses,  and  thirstily  long  to  get  out  of 
the  enclosure  of  positive  knowledge,  with 
that  same  thirsty  longing  that  tortured  the 
monks  who  wanted  to  get  out  of  the  enclosure 
of  monastery  walls. 

73 

If  fate — and  they  say  there  is  such  a  law — 

punishes  criminals,  it  has  its  penalty  also  for 
the  lovers  of  good.  The  former  it  throttles, 
the  latter  it  spits  upon.  The  former  end  in 
bitter  torment,  the  latter — in  ignominy. 

83 


74 

Philosophy  has  always  loved  to  occupy 

the  position  of  a  servant.  In  the  Middle 
Ages  she  was  the  ancilla  theologia,  nowadays 
she  waits  on  science.  At  the  same  time  she 
calls  herself  the  science  of  sciences. 

75 
I  wonder  which  more  effectually  makes  a 

man  rush  forwards  without  lool^ing  back  : 

the  knowledge  that  behind  him  hovers  the 

head  of  Medusa,  with  horrible  snakes,  ready 

to  turn  him  into  stone  ;  or  the  certainty  that 

in  the  rear  lies  the  unchangeable  order  laid 

down  by  the  law  of  causality  and  by  modern 

science.     Judging  from  what  we  see,  judging 

from  the  degree  of  tension  which  human 

-thought  has  reached  to-day,  it  would  seem 

that  the  head  of  Medusa  is  less  terrible  than 

the  law  of  causality.     In  order  to  escape  the 

latter,  man  will  face  anything.     Rather  than 

return  to  the  bosom  of  scientific  cause  and 

effect,  he  embraces  madness  :   not  that  fine 

frenzy  of  madness  which  spends  itself  in 

fiery  speeches,  but  technical  madness,  for 

which   one   is   stowed   away   in   a   lunatic 

asylum. 

84 


76.         . 

"  To  experience  a  feeling  of  joy  or  sorrow, 
of  triumph  or  despair,  ennui  or  happiness, 
and  so  on,  without  having  sufficient  cause 
for  such  feeling,  is  an  unfailing  sign  of  mental 
disease  .  .  .  ."  One  of  the  modern  truths 
which  is  seeing  its  last  days. 

77 

Count     Tolstoy's     German     biographer 

regrets  the  constant  misunderstanding  and 
quarrels  which  took  place  between  Tolstoy 
and  Turgenev.  He  reminds  us  of  Goethe 
and  Schiller,  and  thinks  that  Russian 
literature  would  have  gained  a  great  deal  if 
the  two  remarkable  Russian  writers  had  been 
more  pacific,  had  remained  on  constantly 
friendly  terms  with  one  another,  and 
bequeathed  to  posterity  a  couple  of  volumes 
of  letters  dealing  with  literary  and  philo- 
sophic subjects.  It  might  have  been  very 
nice — but  I  refuse  to  imagine  Tolstoy  and 
Turgenev  keeping  up  a  long,  peaceful  corre- 
spondence, particularly  on  high  subjects. 
Nearly  every  one  of  Turgenev's  opinions 
drove  Tolstoy  to  madness,  or  was  capable  of 
so  driving  him.  Dostoevsky's  dislike  of  Tur- 
genev was  even  stronger  than  Tolstoy's  ;  he 
wrote  of  him  very  spitefully  and  offensively, 

8s 


libelling  him  rather  than  drawing  a  cari- 
cature. Evidently  Dostoevsky,  like  Tolstoy, 
detested  the  "  European  "  in  their  confrere. 
But  here  he  was  mistaken,  in  spite  of  his 
psychological  acuteness.  To  Dostoevsky,  it 
was  enough  that  Turgenev  wore  European 
clothes  and  tried  to  appear  like  a  westerner. 
He  himself  did  the  opposite  :  he  tried  to  get 
rid  of  every  trace  of  Europeanism  from  him- 
self, apparently  without  great  success,  since 
he  failed  to  make  clear  to  himself  wherein 
lay  the  strength  of  Europe,  and  where  her 
sting.  Nevertheless,  the  late  Mikhailovsky 
is  not  wrong  in  calling  Dostoevsky  a  seeker 
of  buried  treasure.  Surely,  in  the  second 
half  of  his  literary  activity  Dostoevsky  no 
longer  sought  for  the  real  fruits  of  life.  There 
awoke  in  him  the  Russian,  the  elemental 
man,  with  a  thirst  for  the  miraculous. 
Compared  with  what  he  wanted,  the  fruits  of 
European  civilisation  seemed  to  him  trivial, 
flat,  insipid.  The  agelong  civilisation  of  his 
neighbours  told  him  that  there  never  had 
been  a  miracle,  and  never  would  be.  But  all 
his  being,  not  yet  broken-in  by  civilisation, 
craved  for  the  stupendous  unknown.  There- 
fore, the  apparently-satisfied  progressivist 
enraged  him.  Tolstoy  once  said  of  Turgenev  : 
"  I  hate  his  democratic  backside."  Dostoev- 
86 


sky  might  have  repeated  these  words  .  .  . 
And  now,  for  the  gratification  of  the  German 
critic,  please  reconcile  the  Russian  writers 
and  make  them  talk  serenely  on  high-flown 
matters!  Dostoevsky  was  within  a  hair's- 
breath  of  a  quarrel  with  Tolstoy,  with  whom, 
not  long  before  death  interrupted  him,  he 
began  a  long  controversy  concerning  "  Anna 
Karenina."  Even  Tolstoy  seemed  to  him  too 
compliant,  too  accommodating. 

78. 

We  rarely  make  a  display  of  that  which 
is  dear  to  us,  near  and  dear  and  necessary. 
On  the  other  hand,  we  readily  exhibit  that 
which  is  of  no  importance  to  us — there  is 
nothing  else  to  be  done  with  it.  A  man 
takes  his  mistress  to  the  theatre  and  sticks 
her  in  full  view  of  ever)^body  ;  he  prefers  to 
remain  at  home  with  the  woman  he  loves,  or 
to  go  about  with  her  quietly,  unnoticed. 
So  with  our  "  Virtues."  Every  time  we 
notice  In  ourselves  some  quality  we  do  not 
prize  we  haste  to  make  a  show  of  it,  thinking 
perhaps  that  someone  would  be  glad  of  it. 
If  it  wins  us  approval,  we  are  pleased — so 
there  Is  some  gain.  To  an  actor,  a  writer,  or 
an  orator,  his  own  anticfe,  without  which  he 
can  have  no  success  with  the  public,  are  often 

87 


disgusting.  And  yet  his  knack  of  making 
such  antics  he  considers  a  talent,  a  divine 
gift,  and  he  would  rather  die  than  that  it 
should  be  lost  to  the  public.  Talent,  on  the 
whole,  is  accounted  a  divine  gift,  only  because 
it  is  always  on  show,  because  it  serves  the 
public  in  some  way  or  other.  All  our. judg- 
ments are  permeated  through  and  through 
with  utilitarianism,  and  were  we  to  attempt 
to  purify  them  from  this  adulteration  what 
would  remain  of  modern  philosophy  ?  That  is 
why  youngish,  inexperienced  writers  usually 
believe  in  harmonia  prc^stabilitata,  even 
though  they  have  never  heard  of  Leibnitz. 
They  persuade  them.selves  that  there  is  no 
breach  between  egoistic  and  idealistic  aspira- 
tions ;  that,  for  instance,  thirst  for  fame 
and  desire  to  serve  mankind  are  one  and  the 
same  thing.  Such  a  persuasion  is  usually 
very  tenacious  of  life,  and  lasts  long  in  men 
of  vigorous  and  courageous  mind.  It  seems 
to  me  that  Poushkin  would  not  have  lost  it, 
even  had  he  lived  to  a  prolonged  old  age. 
It  was  also  part  of  Turgenev's  belief — if  a 
man  of  his  spiritual  fibre  could  have  any 
belief.  Tolstoy  now  believed,  and  now 
disbelieved,  according  to  the  work  he  had  in 
hand.  When  he  had  other  people's  ideas  to 
destroy  he  doubted  the  identity  of  egoistic 

88 


and  idealist  aspirations  ;  when  he  had  his 
own  to  defend,  he  believed  in  it.  Which  is  a 
line  of  conduct  worthy  of  attention,  and 
supremely  worthy  of  imitation  ;  for  human 
truths  are  proper  exclusively  for  ancillary 
purposes  .    .    . 

79 

Man  is  such  a  conservative  creature  that 

any  change,  even  a  change  for  the  better, 
scares  him,  he  prefers  the  bad  old  way  to  the 
new  good  one.  A  man  who  has  been  all 
his  life  a  confirmed  materialist  would  not 
consent  to  believe  that  the  soul  was  immortal, 
not  if  it  were  proved  to  him  more  geofnetrico, 
and  not  if  he  were  a  constitutional  coward, 
fearing  death  like  Shakespeare's  Falstaff. 
Then  we  must  take  human  conceit  into 
account.  Men  do  not  like  to  admit  them- 
selves wrong.  It  is  absurd,  but  it  is  so. 
Men,  trivial,  wretched  creatures,  proved  by 
history  and  by  every  common  event  to  be 
bunglers,  yet  must  needs  consider  them- 
selves infallible,  omniscient.  What  for  ? 
Why  not  admit  their  ignorance  flatly  and 
frankly  ?  True,  it  is  easier  said  than  done. 
But  why  should  slavish  intellect,  in  spite  of 
our  desire  to  be  straightforward,  deck  us  out 
with  would-be  truths,  of  which  we  cannot 
divest  ourselves  even  when  we  know  their 

89 


flimsiness.  Socrates  wanted  to  think  that  he 
knew  nothing — but  he  could  not  bring  it  off. 
He  most  absorbedly  believed  in  his  own 
knowledge ;  nothing  could  be  "  truth," 
except  his  teaching  ;  he  accepted  the  decree 
of  the  oracle,  and  sincerely  esteemed  himself 
the  wisest  of  men.  And  so  it  will  be,  as  long 
as  philosophers  feel  it  their  duty  to  teach  and 
to  save  their  neighbours.  If  a  man  wants 
to  help  people,  he  is  bound  to  become  a  liar. 
We  should  undertake  doubt  seriously,  not 
in  order  to  return  at  length  to  established 
beliefs,  for  that  would  be  a  vicious  circle. 
Experience  shows  us  that  such  a  process, 
certainly  in  the  development  of  ultimate 
questions,  only  leads  from  error  to  error  ; 
we  should  doubt  so  that  doubt  becomes  a 
continuous  creative  force,  inspiring  the  very 
essence  of  our  life.  For  established  know- 
ledge argues  in  us  a  condition  of  imperfect 
receptivity.  The  weak,  flabby  spirit  can- 
not bear  quick,  ceaseless  change.  It  must 
look  round,  it  must  have  time  to  gather  its 
wits,  and  so  it  must  undergo  the  same 
experience  time  after  time.  It  needs  the 
support  and  the  security  of  habit.  But  the 
well-grown  soul  despises  your  crutches.  He 
is  tired  of  crawling  on  his  own  cabbage 
patch,  he  tears  himself  away  from  his  own 

90 


"  native  "  soil,  and  takes  himself  off  into 
the  far  distances,  braving  the  infinitude  of 
space.  Surely  everybody  knows  v/e  are  not 
to  live  in  the  world  for  ever.  But  cowardice 
prevents  one  straightforward  admitting  of  it, 
we  keep  it  close  till  there  is  an  occasion  to 
air  it  as  a  truism.  Only  when  misfortune, 
disease,  old  age  come  upon  us,  then  the  dread 
fear  of  departure  walks  with  us  like  our  own 
skeleton.  We  cannot  dismiss  him.  At 
length,  involuntarily,  we  begin  to  examine 
our  gruesome  companion  with  curiosity. 
And  then,  strangely  enough,  we  observe  that 
he  not  only  tortures  us,  but,  keeping  pace 
with  us,  he  has  begun  to  gnaw  through  all 
the  threads  that  bind  us  to  the  old  existence. 
At  moments  it  seems  as  if,  a  few  more  threads 
gone,  nothing,  nothing  will  remain  to  hold  us 
back,  the  eternal  dream  of  crawling  man  will 
be  fulfilled,  we  shall  be  released  from  the 
bonds,  we  shall  betake  ourselves  in  liberty 
to  regions  far  from  this  damned  vale  of 
earth.  ... 

80 
Moralists  are  abused  because  they  offer  us 
"  moral  consolations."  This  is  not  quite 
fair.  Moralists  would  joyfully  substitute 
palpable  blessings  for  their  abstract  gifts,  if 
they  could.    When  he  was  young,  Tolstoy 

91 


wanted  to  make  men  happy  ;  when  he  was 
old,  and  knew  he  could  not  make  them  happy, 
he  began  to  preach  renunciation,  resignation, 
and  so  forth.  And  how  angry  he  got  when 
people  wouldn't  have  his  teaching !  But 
if,  instead  of  foisting  his  doctrines  off  on  us 
as  the  solution  of  the  ultimate  problems, 
and  as  optimism,  he  had  only  spoken  of  the 
impossibility  of  finding  satisfactory  answers, 
and  have  offered  himself  as  a  pessimist,  he 
would  probably  have  obtained  a  much  more 
willing  hearing.  Now  he  is  annoying, 
because,  finding  himself  unable  to  relieve  his 
neighbours,  he  turns  to  them  and  insists 
that  they  shall  consider  themselves  relieved 
by  him,  nay,  even  made  happy  by  him.  To 
which  many  will  not  agree  :  for  why  should 
they  voluntarily  renounce  their  rights  ? 
Since  although,  God  knows,  the  right  of 
quarrelling  with  one's  fate,  and  cursing  it,  is 
not  a  very  grand  right,  still,  it  is  a  right   .    .    . 

8i 
Ivanov,  in  Tchekhov's  drama  of  that 
name,  compares  himself  to  an  overstrained 
labourer.  The  labourer  dies,  so  that  all 
that  remains  to  Ivanov  is  to  die.  But 
logic,  as  you  know,  recommends  great 
caution  in  coming  to  conclusions  by  analogy. 

92 


Behold  Tchekhov  himself,  who,  as  far  as 
we  can  judge,  had  endured  in  his  own  soul 
all  the  tragedy,  just  as  Ivanov  had,  did  not 
die  or  think  of  dying,  or  even  turn  out  a 
wasted  man.  He  is  doing  something,  he 
struggles,  he  seeks,  his  work  seems  important 
and  considerable  to  us,  just  like  other 
human  works.  Ivanov  shot  himself  because 
the  drama  must  end,  while  Tchekhov  had 
not  yet  finished  his  own  struggle.  Our 
aesthetics  demand  that  the  drama  must 
have  a  climax  and  a  finale :  though  we  have 
abandoned  the  Aristotelian  unities.  Given 
a  little  more  time,  however,  dramatic 
writers  will  have  got  rid  of  this  restriction 
also.  They  will  frankly  confess  that  they 
do  not  know  how,  or  with  what  event  to 
end  their  dramas.  Stories  have  already 
learnt  to  dispense  with  an  ending. 

82 
More  of  the  same. — Ivanov  says  :  "  Now, 
where  is  my  salvation  ?  In  what  ?  If  an 
intelligent,  educated,  healthy  man  for  no 
discoverable  reason  sets  up  a  Lazarus  lament 
and  starts  to  roll  down  an  inclined  plane,  then 
he  is  rolling  without  resisting,  and  there  is 
no  salvation  for  him."  One  way  out  would 
be  to  accept  the  inclined   plane  and    the 

93 


gathering  impetus  as  normal.  Even  further, 
one  might  find  in  the  rolling  descent  a  proof 
of  one's  spiritual  superiority  to  other  men. 
Of  course  in  such  a  case  one  should  go  apart 
from  the  rest,  not  court  young  girls  or 
fraternise  with  those  who  are  living  the 
ordinary  life,  but  be  alone.  "Love  is 
nonsense,  caresses  maudlin,  work  is  meaning- 
less, and  song  and  fiery  speeches  are  banal, 
played-out,"  continued  Ivanov.  To  young 
Sasha  these  words  are  horrible, — but  Ivanov 
will  be  responsible  for  them.  He  is  already 
responsible  for  them.  That  he  is  tottering 
is  nothing  :  it  is  still  full  early  for  him  to 
shoot  himself.  He  will  live  whilst  his 
creator,  Tchekhov,  lives.  And  we  shall 
listen  to  the  shaky,  vacillating  philosophy. 
We  are  so  sick  of  symmetry  and  harmony 
and  finality,  sick  as  we  are  of  bourgeois 
self-complacency. 

83 

It  will  be  seen  from  the  above  that 
already  in  Ivanov^  one  of  his  early 
works,  Tchekhov  has  assumed  the  role  of 
advocatus  diaboli.  Wherever  Ivanov  appears 
he  brings  ruin  and  destruction.  It  is  true, 
Tchekhov  hesitates  to  take  his  side  openly, 
and  evidently  does  not  know  what  to  do 

94 


with  his  hero,  so  that  in  the  end  he  shakes 
him  off,  so  to  speak,  he  washes  his  hands 
of  him  in  the  accepted  fashion  :  Ivanov 
shoots  himself  in  the  sight  of  everybody, 
has  not  even  time  to  go  discreetly  into  a 
corner.  The  only  justification  of  Iva7iov 
is  that  caricature  of  honesty,  Doctor  Lvov. 
Lvov  is  not  a  living  figure — that  is  obvious. 
But  this  is  why  he  is  remarkable.  It  is 
remarkable  that  Tchekhov  should  deem  it 
necessary  to  resurrect  the  forgotten  Staro- 
doum,  that  utterer  of  truisms  in  Fon-Visin's 
comedy  ;  and  to  resurrect  him  no  longer 
that  people  may  bow  their  heads  before  the 
incarnation  of  virtue,  but  so  that  they  shall 
jeer  at  him.  Look  at  Doctor  Lvov !  Is  he 
not  Starodoum  alive  again  f  He  is  honesty 
personified.  From  force  of  old  habit, 
honesty  sticks  his  chest  out,  and  speaks  in 
a  loud  voice,  with  imperious  tone,  and  yet 
not  one  of  this  old  loyal  subjects  gives  a 
brass  farthing  for  him.  They  don't  even 
trouble  to  gibe  at  him,  but  spit  on  him  and 
shove  him  through  the  door,  as  a  disgusting 
and  impudent  toady.  Poor  honesty !  What 
has  he  sunk  to  !  Evidently  virtues,  like 
everything  else,  should  not  live  too  long  on 
earth. 

Tchekhov's  "  Uncle   Vanya  "  is  waiting 

95 


to  throw  himself  on  the  neck  of  his  friend 
and  rival,  the  doctor,  throw  himself  on  his 
neck  and  sob  there  like  a  little  child.  But 
he  finds  that  the  doctor  himself  has  an 
unquenchable  thirst  for  consolation  and 
encouragement,  whilst  poor  Sonia  can  bear 
her  maiden  sorrows  no  longer.  They  all 
go  wandering  round  with  big,  lost  eyes, 
looking  for  someone  to  relieve  them  from 
part  of  their  woes,  at  least.  And  lo,  every- 
body is  in  the  same  street  as  themselves. 
All  are  over-heavy-laden,  not  one  can  carry 
his  own  burden,  let  alone  give  a  lift  to 
another's.  The  last  consolation  is  taken 
away.  It  is  no  use  complaining  :  there  is  no 
sympathetic  response.  On  all  faces  the 
same  expression  of  hopelessness  and  despair. 
Each  must  bear  his  cross  in  silence.  None 
may  weep  nor  utter  pitiful  cries — it  would  be 
uncalled-for  and  indecent.  When  Uncle 
Vanya,  who  has  not  realised  at  once  the 
extremity  of  his  situation,  begins  to  cry 
out :  "  My  life's  a  waste  !  "  nobody  wants 
to  listen  to  him.  "  Waste,  waste  !  Every- 
body knows  it's  a  waste !  Shut  your 
mouth,  howling  won't  help  you  :  neither 
will  pistol-shots  solve  anything.  Everyone 
of  us  might  start  your  cry — but  we  don't, 
neither  do  we  shout : 

96 


— Tou  think  Pll  weep  ; 
No,  Pll  not  weep  :  I  have  full  cause  of  weeping. 
But  this   heart  shall  break   into   a   hundred 

thousand  flaws. 
Or  ere  Pll  weep  ;  0  Fool,  I  shall  go  madJ^ 

Gradually  there  settles  down  a  dreadful, 
eternal  silence  of  the  cemetery.  All  go 
mad,  without  words,  they  realise  what  is 
happening  within  them,  and  make  up  their 
minds  for  the  last  shift :  to  hide  their 
grief  for  ever  from  men,  and  to  speak  in 
commonplace,  trivial  words  which  will  be 
accepted  as  sensible,  serious,  and  even  lofty 
expressions.  No  longer  will  anyone  cry : 
"  Life  is  a  waste,"  and  intrude  his  feelings 
on  his  neighbours.  Everybody  knows  that 
it  is  shameful  for  one's  life  to  be  a  waste, 
and  that  this  shame  should  be  hidden  from 
every  eye.  The  last  law  on  earth  is — 
loneliness  .... 

Resigne-toi,  mon  cceur,  dors  ton  sommeil 
de  brute  I 

8s 

Groundless  assumptions.  —  "  Based  on 
nothing,"  because  they  seem  to  derive  from 
common  assumption  of  the  reasonableness 
of  human  existence,  which  assumption  surely 
is  the  child  of  our  desires,  and  probably  a 

«  97 


bastard    at    thai: In    his    Miserly 

Knight  Poushkin  represented  a  miser  as  a 
romantic  figure.  Gogol,  with  his  Plyushkin, 
creates  on  the  contrary  a  repulsive  figure  of 
a  miser.  Gogol  was  nearer  to  reality.  A 
miser  is  ugly,  whatever  view  you  take  of 
him — inward  or  outward.  Yet  Gogol  ought 
not  to  teach  people  to  preserve  in  their  age 
the  ideals  of  their  youth.  Once  old  age 
is  upon  us — it  must  not  be  improved  upon, 
much  less  apologised  for.  It  must  be 
accepted,  and  its  essence  brought  to  light. 
Plyushkin,  the  vulgar,  dirty  maniac  is 
disgusting — but  who  knows  ?  perhaps  he  is 
fulfilling  the  serious  mission  of  his  own 
being.  He  is  possessed  by  one  desire — to 
everything  else,  to  all  happenings  in  the 
outer  world  he  is  indifferent.  It  is  the  same 
to  him  whether  he  is  hungry  or  full,  warm  or 
cold,  clean  or  dirty.  Practically  no  event 
can  distract  his  attention  from  his  single 
purpose.  He  is  disinterestedly  mean,  if 
one  may  say  so.  He  has  no  need  for  his 
riches.  He  lets  them  rot  in  a  disgusting 
heap,  and  does  not  dream,  like  Poushkin's 
knight,  of  palaces  and  power,  or  of  sportive 
nymphs.  Upon  what  end  is  he  concentrated  ? 
No  one  has  tlie  time  to  think  it  out.  At  the 
sight    of    Plyushkin    everyone    recalls    the 

98 


damage  the  miser  has  done.  Everyone  of 
course  is  right :  Plyushkins,  who  heap  up 
fortunes  to  let  them  rot,  are  very  harmful. 
The  social  judgment  is  nearly  always  to  the 
point.  But  not  quite  always.  It  won't 
hurt  morals  and  social  considerations  if  at 
times  they  have  to  hold  their  tongue — and 
at  such  times  we  might  succeed  in  guessing 
the  riddle  of  meanness,  sordidness,  old  age. 

86 

We  have  sufficient  grounds  for  taking  life 
mistrustfully  :  it  has  defrauded  us  so  often 
of  our  cherished  expectations.  But  we  have 
still  stronger  grounds  for  mistrusting  reason  : 
since  if  life  deceived  us,  it  was  only  because 
futile  reason  let  herself  be  deceived.  Per- 
haps reason  herself  invented  the  deception, 
and  then  to  serve  her  own  ambitious  ends, 
thre.v  the  blame  on  life,  so  that  life 
shall  appear  sick-headed.  But  if  we  have 
to  choose  between  life  and  reason,  we  choose 
life,  and  then  we  no  longer  need  try  to  foresee 
and  to  explain,  we  can  wait,  and  accept  all 
that  is  unalterable  as  part  of  the  game. 
And  thus  Nietzsche,  having  realised  that 
all  his  hopes  had  gradually  crumbled,  and 
that  he  could  never  get  back  to  his  former 
strength,  but  must  grow  worse  and  worse 

99 


every  day,  wrote  in  a  private  letter  of  May 
28,  1883:  ^^  Ich  will  es  so  schzver  haben, 
ivie  nur  irgend  ein  Mensch  es  hat;  erst 
unter  diesem  Drucke  gewinne  ich  das  gute 
Gewissen  dafur^  etwas  zu  besitzen,  das  wenige 
Menschen  haben  und  gehaht  haben  :  Fliigel, 
um  im  Gleichnisse  zu  redenP  In  these 
few  simple  words  lies  the  key  to  the  philo- 
sophy of  Nietzsche. 

"  So  long  as  Apollo  calls  him  not  to  the 
sacred  offering,  of  all  the  trifling  children 
of  men  the  most  trifling  perhaps  is  the 
poet."  Put  Poushkin's  expression  into 
plain  language,  and  you  will  get  a  page 
on  neuropathology.  All  neurasthenic  indi- 
luduals  sink  from  a  state  of  extreme  excita- 
tion to  one  of  complete  prostration.  Poets 
too  :   and  they  are  proud  of  it. 

88 

Shy  people  usually  receive  their  impres- 
sions post-dated.  During  those  moments 
when  an  event  is  taking  place  before  their 
eyes,  they  can  see  nothing,  only  later  on, 
having  evoked  from  their  memory  a  frag- 
ment of  what  happened,  they  make  for 
themselves  an  impression  of  the  whole  scene. 

100 


And  then,  retrospectively  arise  in  their  soul 
feelings  of  pity,  offence,  surprise,  so  vivid, 
as  if  they  were  the  flames  of  the  instant 
moment,  not  rekindlings  from  the  past. 
Thus  shy  people  always  think  a  great  deal, 
and  are  always  too  late  for  their  work.  It 
is  never  too  late  for  thought.  Timid  before 
others,  they  reach  great  heights  of  daring 
when  alone.  They  are  bad  speakers — but 
often  excellent  writers.  Their  life  is  insigni- 
ficant and  tedious,  they  are  not  noticed, — 
until  they  become  famous.  And  by  the 
time  fame  comes,  they  do  not  need  popular 
attention  any  more. 

89 

If  Tchekhov's  Layevsky,  in  7he  Duel^ 
had  been  a  writer  with  a  literary  talent, 
people  would  have  said  of  him  that  he  was 
original,  and  that  he  was  engaged  in  the 
study  of  the  "  mysticism  of  sex,"  like 
Gabriele  D'Annunzio  for  example ;  whereas, 
as  he  stands,  he  is  only  banal.  His  idleness 
is  a  reproach  to  him  :  people  would  prefer 
that  at  least  he  should  copy  out  extracts 
from  documents. 


loi 


.      90         . 

From  observations    on    children. — Egoism 

in  a  man  strikes  us  unpleasantly  because  it 
betrays  our  poverty.  "  I  cannot  dole  out 
my  abundance  to  my  neighbour,  for  if  I 
do  I  myself  shall  be  left  with  little."  We 
should  like  to  be  able  to  scatter  riches  with 
a  royal  hand ;  and,  therefore,  when  we  see 
someone  else  clutching  his  rags  with  the 
phrase,  "  property  is  sacred,"  we  are  hurt. 
What  is  sacred  comes  from  the  gods,  and 
the  gods  have  plenty  of  everything,  they 
do  not  count  and  skimp,  like  mortals. 

91 

We  see  a  man  repent  for  his  actions,  and 

conclude  that  such  actions  should  be 
avoided  :  an  instance  of  false,  but  apparently 
irreproachable  reasoning.  Time  passes,  and 
we  see  the  same  man  repenting  again  of  the 
self-same  acts.  If  we  love  logic,  this  will 
confirm  us  in  our  first  conclusion.  But  if 
we  do  not  care  for  logic,  we  shall  say  :  man 
is  under  an  equal  necessity  to  commit  these 
acts,  and  to  repent  of  them.  Sometimes, 
however,  the  first  conclusion  is  corrected 
differently.  Having  decided  that  repent- 
ance proves  that  a  certain  course  of  action 
should  be  avoided,  man  avoids  it  all  his 

102 


life  ;  only  to  realise  in  tlie  end,  suddenly, 
with  extraordinary  clarity,  how  bitter  is  his 
regret  that  he  has  not  trodden  the  for- 
bidden course.  But  by  this  time  a  new 
conclusion  is  already  useless.  Life  is  over, 
and  the  newly-enlightened  mind  no  longer 
knows  how  to  rid  itself  of  the  superfluous 
light. 

92 
A  version  of  one  of  the  scenes  of  Tolstoy's 
Power  of  Darkness  reminds  us  exactly  of 
a  one-act  piece  of  Maeterlinck.  There  can 
be  no  question  of  imitation.  When  the 
Power  of  Darkness  was  written  nobody  had 
heard  of  MaeterHnck.  Tolstoy  evidently 
wanted  to  try  a  new  method  of  creating, 
and  to  get  rid  of  his  own  manner,  which 
he  had  evolved  through  tens  of  years  of 
dogged  labour.  But  the  risk  was  too  great. 
He  preferred  to  cure  himself  of  his  doubts 
by  the  common  expedient,  manual  toil 
and  an  outdoor  life.  So  he  took  up  the 
plough. 

93 
Every    woodcock    praises    its    own    fen ; 

Lermontov  saw  the  sign  of  spiritual  pre- 
eminence in  dazzling  white  linen,  and  there- 
fore his  heroes  always  dressed  with  taste. 
Dostoevsky,   on  the  other  hand,   despised 

103 


show :  Dmitri  Karamazov  wears  dirty 
linen — and  this  is  assigned  to  him  as  a  merit, 
or  almost  a  merit. 

94 

While  he  was  yet  young,  when  he  wrote 

his  story,  Enough,  Turgenev  saw  that  some- 
thing terrible  hung  over  his  life.  He  saw, 
but  did  not  get  frightened,  although  he 
understood  that  in  time  he  ought  to  become 
frightened,  because  life  without  a  continual 
inner  disturbance  would  have  no  meaning 
for  him. 

95 

Napoleon    is    reputed    to    have    had    a 

profound  insight  into  the  human  soul ; 
Shakespeare  also.  And  their  vision  has 
nothing  in  common. 

.96.   . 

What  we  call  imagination,  which  we 
value  so  highly  in  great  poets — is,  essentially, 
unbridled,  loose,  or  if  you  will,  even  per- 
verted mentality.  In  ordinary  mortals  we 
call  it  vice ;  but  to  the  poets  everything  is 
forgiven  on  account  of  the  benefit  and 
pleasure  we  derive  from  their  works.  In 
spite  of  our  high-flown  theories  we  have 
always    been    extremely    practical,    great 

104 


utilitarians.  Two-and-a-half-thousand  years 
went  by  before  Tolstoy  got  up,  and,  in  his 
turn,  offered  the  poets  their  choice  :  either 
to  be  virtuous,  or  to  stop  creating  and  forfeit 
the  fame  of  teachers.  If  Tolstoy  did  not 
make  a  laughing-stock  of  himself,  he  has 
to  thank  his  grey  hairs  and  the  respect 
which  was  felt  for  his  past.  Anyhow, 
nobody  took  him  seriously.  Far  from  it ;  for 
never  yet  did  poets  feel  so  free  from  the 
shackles  of  morality  as  they  do  now.  If 
Schiller  were  writing  his  dramas  and  philo- 
sophic essays  to-day,  he  would  scarcely  find 
a  reader.  In  Tolstoy  himself  it  is  not  so 
much  his  virtues  as  his  vices  which  we  find 
interesting.  We  begin  to  understand  his 
works,  not  so  much  in  the  light  of  his 
striving  after  ideals,  but  from  the  standpoint 
of  that  incongruity  which  existed  between 
the  ideas  he  artificially  imposed  upon  him- 
self, and  the  demands  of  his  own  non- 
virtuous  soul,  which  struggled  ever  for 
liberty.  Nicolenka  Irtenyev,  in  Childhood 
and  Touth,  would  sit  for  hours  on  the  terrace, 
turning  over  in  his  mind  his  elder  brother 
Volodya's  love-making  with  the  chamber- 
maids. But,  although  he  desired  it  ''  morg 
than  anything  on  earth^^  he  could  never 
bring  himself  to  be  like  Volodya.    The  maid 

105 


said  to  the  elder  brother,  **  Why  doesn't 
Nicolai  Petrovitch  ever  come  here  and  have 
a  lark  ?  "  She  did  not  know  that  Nicolai 
Petrovitch  was  sitting  at  that  moment 
under  the  stairs,  ready  to  give  anything  on 
earth  to  take  the  place  of  the  scamp  Volodya. 
"  Everything  on  earth  "  is  twice  repeated. 
Tolstoy  gives  a  psychological  explanation 
of  his  Httle  hero's  conduct.  "  I  was  timid 
by  nature,"  Nicolenka  tells  us,  "  but  my 
shyness  was  increased  by  the  conviction 
of  my  ugliness."  Ugliness,  the  conscious- 
ness of  one's  ugliness,  leads  to  shyness ! 
What  good  can  there  be  in  virtue  which  has 
such  a  suspicious  origin  ?  And  how  can 
the  morality  of  Tolstoy's  heroes  be  trusted  f 
Consciousness  of  one's  ugHness  begets  shy- 
ness, shyness  drives  the  passions  inwards 
and  allows  them  no  natural  outlet.  Little 
by  little  there  develops  a  monstrous  dis- 
crepancy between  the  imagination  and  its 
desires,  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  power  to 
satisfy  these  desires,  on  the  other.  Per- 
manent hunger,  and  a  contracted  alimentary 
canal,  which  does  not  pass  the  food  through. 
Hence  the  hatred  of  the  imagination,  with 
its  unrealised  and  unrealisable  cravings.  .  .  . 
In  our  day  no  one  has  scourged  love  so 
cruelly   as  Tolstoy   in   Pozver  of  Darkness. 

io6 


But  the  feats  of  the  village  Don  Juan  need 
not  necessarily  end  in  tragedy.  *'  More 
than  anything  on  earth,"  however,  Tolstoy 
hates  the  Don  Juans,  the  handsome,  brave, 
successful,  the  self-confident,  who  spon- 
taneously act  upon  suggestion,  the  con- 
querors of  women,  who  stretch  out  their 
hands  to  living  statues  cold  as  stone.  As 
far  as  ever  he  can  he  has  his  revenge  on 
them  in  his  writing. 

97 
In  the  drama  of  the  future  the  whole 

presentation  will  be  different.  First  of  all, 
the  difficulties  of  the  denouement  will  be 
set  aside.  The  new  hero  has  a  past — 
reminiscent — but  no  present ;  neither  wife, 
nor  sweetheart,  nor  friends,  nor  occupation. 
He  is  alone,  he  communes  only  with  himself 
or  with  imaginary  listeners.  He  lives  a 
life  apart.  So  that  the  stage  will  represent 
either  a  desert  island  or  a  room  in  a  large 
densely-populated  city,  where  among  millions 
of  inhabitants  one  can  live  alone  as  on  a 
desert  island.  The  hero  must  not  return 
to  people  and  to  social  ideals.  He  must  go 
forward  to  loneliness,  to  absolute  loneliness. 
Even  now  nobody,  looking  at  GogoPs 
Plyushkin,  will  feel  any  more  the  slightest 

107 


response  to  the  pathetic  appeal  for  men  to 
preserve  the  ideals  of  youth  on  into  old 
age.  Modern  youths  go  to  see  Plyushkin, 
not  for  the  sake  of  laughing  at  him  or  of 
benefiting  from  the  warning  which  his 
terrible  miserly  figure  offers  them,  but  in 
order  to  see  if  there  may  not  be  some  few 
little  pearls  there  where  they  could  be  least 
expected,  in  the  midst  of  his  heap  of  dirt. 
.  .  .  Lycurgus  succeeded  in  fixing  the 
Spartans  like  cement  for  some  centuries 
— but  after  that  came  the  thaw,  and  all 
their  hardness  melted.  The  last  remains 
of  the  petrified  Doric  art  are  now  removed 
to  museums.  ...  Is  something  happen- 
ing  ? 

If  I  sow  not  in  the  spring,  in  autumn  I 
shall  eat  no  bread.  Every  day  brings 
troubles  and  worries  enough  for  poor,  weak 
man.  He  had  to  forget  his  work  for  a 
moment,  and  now  he  is  lost :  he  will  die 
of  hunger  or  cold.  In  order  merely  to 
preserve  our  existence  we  have  to  strain 
mind  and  body  to  tne  utmost :  nay  more, 
we  have  to  think  of  the  surrounding  world 
exclusively  with  a  view  to  gaining  a  liveli- 
hood from  it.  There  is  no  time  to  think 
about  truth !    This  is  why  positivism  was 

108 


invented,  with  its  theory  of  natural  develop- 
ment. Really,  everything  we  see  is 
mysterious  and  incomprehensible.  A  tiny 
midge  and  a  huge  elephant,  a  caressing 
breeze  and  a  blizzard,  a  young  tree  and  a 
rocky  mountain — what  are  all  these  ?  What 
are  they,  why  are  they  ?  we  incessantly 
ask  ourselves,  but  we  may  not  speak  out. 
For  philosophy  is  ever  pushed  aside  to 
make  room  for  the  daily  needs.  Only 
those  think  who  are  unable  to  trouble 
about  self-preservation,  or  who  will  not 
trouble,  or  who  are  too  careless  :  that  is, 
sick,  desperate,  or  lazy  people.  These  return 
to  the  riddle  which  workaday  men,  confirmed 
in  the  certainty  that  they  are  right,  have 
construed  into  "  naturalness." 

99 

Kant,  and  after  him  Schopenhauer,  was 

exceedingly  fond  of  the  epithet  "  disin- 
terested," and  used  it  on  every  occasion 
when  the  supply  of  laudatory  terms  he  had 
at  his  disposal  was  exhausted.  "  Disin- 
terested thinking,"  which  does  not  pursue 
any  practical  aim,  is,  according  to  Schopen- 
hauer, the  highest  ideal  towards  which  man 
can  strive.  This  truth  he  considered  uni- 
versal, an  a  priori.    But  had  he  chanced 

109 


to  be  brought  amongst  Russian  peasants 
he  would  have  had  to  change  his  opinion. 
With  them  thoughts  about  destiny  and 
the  why  and  wherefore  of  the  universe 
and  infinity  and  so  on,  would  by  no  means 
be  considered  disinterested,  particularly 
if  the  man  who  devoted  himself  to  such 
thoughts  were  at  the  same  time  to  announce, 
as  becomes  a  philosopher,  that  he  claimed 
complete  freedom  from  physical  labour. 
There  the  philosopher,  were  he  even  Plato, 
would  be  stigmatised  with  the  disgraceful 
nickname,  "  Idle-jack."  There  the  highest 
activity  is  interested  activity,  directed 
towards  strictly  practical  purposes;  and  if 
the  peasants  could  speak  learnedly,  they 
would  certainly  call  the  principle  upon 
which  their  judgment  is  founded  an  a 
priori,  Tolstoy,  who  draws  his  wisdom 
from  the  folk-sources,  attacks  the  learned 
for  the  very  fact  that  they  do  not  want  to 
work,  but  are  disinterestedly  occupied  in 
the  search  for  truth. 

100 

It  is  clear  to  any  impartial  observer  that 
practically  every  man  changes  his  opinion 
ten  times  a  day.  Much  has  been  said  on 
this  subject,  it  has  served  for  innumerable 

no 


satires  and  humorous  sketches.  Nobody  has 
ever  doubted  that  it  was  a  vice  to  be 
unstable  is  one's  opinions.  Three-fourths 
of  our  education  goes  to  teaching  us  most 
carefully  to  conceal  within  ourselves  the 
changeableness  of  our  moods  and  judgments. 
A  man  who  cannot  keep  his  word  is  the 
last  of  men :  never  to  be  trusted.  Likewise, 
a  man  with  no  firm  convictions  :  it  is  im- 
possible to  work  together  with  him.  Morality, 
here  as  always  making  towards  utilitarian 
ends,  issues  the  "  eternal  "  principle  :  thou 
shalt  remain  true  to  thy  convictions.  In 
cultured  circles  this  commandment  is  con- 
sidered so  unimpeachable  that  men  are  terri- 
fied even  to  appear  inconstant  in  their  own 
eyes.  They  become  petrified  in  their  beliefs, 
and  no  greater  shame  can  happen  to  them 
than  that  they  should  be  forced  to  admit 
that  they  have  altered  in  their  convictions. 
When  a  straightforward  man  like  Montaigne 
plainly  speaks  of  the  inconstancy  of  his 
mind  and  his  views,  he  is  regarded  as  a  libeller 
of  himself.  One  need  neither  see,  nor  hear, 
nor  understand  what  is  taking  place  around 
one  :  once  your  mind  is  made  up,  you  have 
lost  your  right  to  grow,  you  must  remain 
a  stock,  a  statue,  the  qualities  and  defects 
of  which  are  known  to  everybody. 

Ill 


lOI 

Every  philosophic  world-conception  starts 
from  some  or  other  solution  of  the  general 
problem  of  human  existence,  and  proceeds 
from  this  to  direct  the  course  of  human 
life  in  some  particular  direction  or  other. 
We  have  neither  the  power  nor  the  data 
for  the  solution  of  general  problems,  and 
consequently  all  our  moral  deductions  are 
arbitrary,  they  only  witness  to  our  prejudices 
if  we  are  naturally  timid,  or  to  our  pro- 
pensities and  tastes  if  we  are  self-confident. 
But  to  keep  up  prejudices  is  a  miserable, 
unworthy  business :  nobody  will  dispute 
that.  Therefore  let  us  cease  to  grieve  about 
our  differences  in  opinion,  let  us  wish  that 
in  the  future  there  should  be  many  more 
differences,  and  much  less  unanimity.  There 
is  no  arbitrary  truth  :  it  remains  to  suppose 
that  truth  lies  in  changeable  human  tastes 
and  desires.  In  so  far  as  our  common 
social  existence  demands  it — let  us  try 
to  come  to  an  understanding,  to  agree : 
but  not  one  jot  more.  Any  agreement 
which  does  not  arise  out  of  common  necessity 
will  be  a  crime  against  the  Holy  Spirit. 


112 


102 

Tchekhov  was  very  good  at  expounding 
a  system  of  philosophy — even  several 
systems.  We  have  examples  in  more  than 
one  of  his  stories,  particularly  in  The  Duel, 
where  Fon-Koren  speaks  ex  cathedra.  But 
Tchekhov  had  no  use  for  such  systems, 
save  for  purely  literary  purposes.  When 
you  write  a  story,  and  your  hero  must 
speak  clearly  and  consistently,  a  system 
has  its  value.  But  when  you  are  left  to 
yourself,  can  you  seriously  trouble  your 
soul  about  philosophy  ?  Even  a  German 
cannot,  it  seems,  go  so  far  in  his  "  idealism." 
Vladimir  Semionovitch,  the  young  author 
in  Tchekhov's  Nice  People^  sincerely  and 
deeply  believes  in  his  own  ideas,  but  even 
of  him,  notwithstanding  his  blatantly  comical 
limitations,  we  cannot  say  more  than  that 
his  ideas  were  constant  little  views  or 
pictures  to  him,  which  had  gradually  become 
a  second  natural  setting  to  everything  he 
saw.  Certainly  he  did  not  live  by  ideas, 
Tchekhov  is  right  when  he  says  that  the 
singing  of  Gaudeamus  igitur  and  the  writing 
of  a  humanitarian  appeal  were  equally 
important  to  Vladimir  Semionovitch.  As 
soon  as  Vladimir's  sister  begins  to  think 
for    herself,    her    brother's    highest    ideas, 

H  113 


which  she  has  formerly  revered,  become 
banal  and  objectionable  to  her.  Her  brother 
cannot  understand  her,  neither  her  hostility 
to  progress  and  humanitarianism,  nor  to 
the  university  spree  and  Gandeamus  igitur. 
But  Tchekhov  does  understand.  Only,  let 
us  admit,  the  word  ''  understand "  does 
not  carry  its  ordinary  meaning  here.  So 
long  as  the  child  was  fed  on  its  mother's 
milk,  everything  seemed  to  it  smooth  and 
easy.  But  when  it  had  to  give  up  milk 
and  take  to  vodka, — and  this  is  the 
inevitable  law  of  human  development — 
the  childish  suckling  dreams  receded  into 
the  realm  of  the  irretrievable  past. 

103 

The  summit  of  human  existence,  say 
the  philosophers,  is  spiritual  serenity, 
aequani?nttas.  But  in  that  case  the  animals 
should  be  our  ideal,  for  in  the  matter  of 
imperturbability  they  leave  nothing  to  be 
desired.  Look  at  a  grazing  sheep,  or  a 
cow.  The\'  do  not  look  before  and  after, 
and  sigh  for  what  is  not.  Given  a  good 
pasture,  the  present  suffices  them  perfectly. 


114 


104 

A  hungry  man  was  given  a  piece  of  bread, 
and  a  kind  word.  The  kindness  seemed 
more  to  him  than  the  bread.  But  had  he 
been  given  only  the  kind  word  and  no  bread, 
he  would  perhaps  have  hated  nice  phrases. 
Therefore,  caution  is  always  to  be  recom- 
mended in  the  drawing  of  conclusions : 
and  in  none  more  than  in  the  conclusion 
that  truth  is  more  urgently  required  than  a 
consoling  lie.  The  connections  of  isolated 
phenomena  can  very  rarely  be  discerned. 
As  a  rule,  several  causes  at  once  produce 
one  effect.  Owing  to  our  propensity  for 
idealising,  we  always  make  prominent  that 
cause  which  seems  to  us  loftiest. 

105 

A  strange  anomaly  !  we  see  thousands 
of  human  beings  perish  around  us,  yet  we 
walk  warily  lest  we  crush  a  worm.  The 
sense  of  compassion  is  strong  in  us,  but  it 
is  adapted  to  the  conditions  of  our  existence. 
It  can  relieve  an  odd  case  here  and  there — 
and  it  raises  a  terrific  outcry  over  a  trifling 
injustice.  Yet  Schopenhauer  wanted  to 
make  compassion  the  metaphysical  basis 
of  morality. 


"S 


io6 

To  discard  logic  as  an  instrument,  a 
means  or  aid  for  acquiring  knowledge, 
would  be  extravagant.  Why  should  we  ? 
For  the  sake  of  consequentialism  ?  i.e.  for 
logic's  very  self  ?  But  logic,  as  an  aim  in 
itself,  or  even  as  the  only  means  to  know- 
ledge, is  a  different  matter.  Against  this 
one  must  fight  even  if  he  has  against  him 
all  the  authorities  of  thought — beginning 
with  Aristotle. 

107 
"  When  the  yellowing  corn-fields  sway  and 
are  moved,  and  the  fresh  forest  utters  sound 
to  the  breeze  .  .  .  then  I  see  happiness 
on  earth,  and  God  in  heaven."  It  may  be  so, 
to  the  poet ;  but  it  may  be  quite  different. 
Sometimes  the  corn-field  waves,  the  woods 
make  noise  in  the  wind,  the  stream  whispers 
its  best  tales  :  and  still  man  cannot  perceive 
happiness,  nor  forget  the  lesson  taught  in 
childhood,  that  the  blue  heavens  are  only  an 
optical  illusion.  But  if  the  sky  and  the 
boundless  fields  do  not  convince,  is  it 
possible  that  the  arguments  of  Kant  and 
the  commentations  of  his  dozens  of  talent- 
less followers  can  do  anything  ? 


116 


io8 

The  greatest  temptation. — In  Dostoevsky*s 
Grand  Inquisitor  lurks  a  dreadful  idea. 
Who  can  be  sure,  he  says — metaphorically, 
of  course — that  when  the  crucified  Christ 
uttered  His  cry  :  *'  Lord,  why  hast  thou 
forsaken  me  ?  "  He  did  not  call  to  mind  the 
temptation  of  Satan,  who  for  one  word  had 
offered  Him  dominion  over  the  world  ?  And, 
if  Jesus  recollected  this  offer,  how  can  we 
be  sure  that  He  did  not  repent  not  having 
taken  it  ?  .  .  .  One  had  better  not  be  told 
about  such  temptations. 

109 

From  the  Future  Opinions  concerning  con- 
temporary Europe.''^ — "  Europe  of  the  nine- 
teenth and  twentieth  centuries  presented  a 
strange  picture.  After  Luther,  Christianity 
degenerated  into  morality,  and  all  the 
threads  connecting  man  with  God  were  cut. 
Together  with  the  rationalisation  of  religion, 
all  life  took  on  a  flat,  rational  character. 
Knights  were  replaced  by  a  standing  army, 
recruited  on  the  principle  of  compulsory 
military  service  for  all,  and  existing  chiefly 
for  the  purpose  of  parades  and  official  needs. 
Alchemy,  which  had  been  trying  to  find 
the  philosopher's    stone,  was    replaced   by 

117 


chemistry,  which  tried  to  discover  the  best 
means  for  cheap  preparation  of  cheap  com- 
modities. Astrology,  which  had  sought  in 
the  stars  the  destinies  of  men,  was  replaced 
by  astronomy,  which  foretold  the  eclipses  of 
the  sun  and  the  appearing  of  comets.  Even 
the  dress  of  the  people  became  strangely 
colourless ;  not  only  men,  but  women  also 
wore  uniform,  monochromatic  clothes.  Most 
remarkable  of  all,  that  epoch  did  not  notice 
its  own  insignificance,  but  was  even  proud 
of  itself.  It  seemed  to  the  man  of  that  day 
that  never  before  had  the  common  treasury 
of  spiritual  riches  been  so  well  replenished. 
We,  of  course,  may  smile  at  their  naivete, 
but  if  one  of  their  own  number  had  allowed 
himself  to  express  an  opinion  disdainful  of 
the  bases  of  the  contemporary  culture  he 
would  have  been  declared  immoral,  or  put 
away  in  a  mad-house  :  a  terrible  punish- 
ment, very  common  in  that  coarse  period, 
though  now  it  if  very  difficult  even  to  imagine 
what  such  a  proceeding  impHed.  But  in 
those  days,  to  be  known  as  immoral,  or  to 
find  oneself  in  a  mad-house,  was  worse  than 
to  die.  One  of  the  famous  poets  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  Alexander  Poushkin, 
said  :  '  God  forbid  that  I  should  go  mad. 
Rather  let  me  be  a  starving  beggar.'     In 

ii8 


those  times  people,  on  the  whole,  were 
compelled  to  tell  lies  and  play  the  hypocrite, 
so  that  not  infrequently  the  brightest  minds, 
who  saw  through  the  shams  of  their  epoch, 
yet  pretended  to  believe  in  science  and 
morality,  only  in  order  to  escape  the  persecu- 
tion of  public  opinion." 


no 

J f  titers  of  tragedies  on  Shakespeare^s  model. 
— To  obtain  a  spark,  one  must  strike  with  all 
one's  might  with  an  iron  upon  a  stone. 
Whereupon  there  is  a  loud  noise,  which  many 
are  inclined  to  believe  more  important  than 
the  little  spark.  Similarly,  writers  having 
shouted  very  loudly,  are  deeply  assured  that 
they  have  fulfilled  their  sacred  mission,  and 
are  amazed  that  all  do  not  share  their 
rapturQS,  that  some  even  stop  their  ears  and 
run  away. 

Ill 

Metamorphoses. — Sense  and  folly  arc  not 
at  all  native  qualities  in  a  man.  In  a 
crisis,  a  stupid  man  becomes  clever.  We 
need  not  go  far  for  an  example.  What 
a  gaping  simpleton  Dostoevsky  looks  in  his 
Injured  and  Insulted,  not  to  mention  Poor 
Folk.    But  in  Letters  from  the  Underworld 

119 


^nd  the  rest  of  his  books  he  is  the  shrewd- 
est and  cleverest  of  writers.  The  same 
may  be  said  of  Nietzsche,  Tolstoy,  or 
Shakespeare.  In  his  Birth  of  Tragedy 
Nietzsche  seems  just  like  the  ordinary  honest, 
rather  simple,  blue-eyed  provincial  German 
student,  and  in  Zarathustra  he  reminds 
one  of  Machiavelli.  Poor  Shakespeare  got 
himself  into  a  row  for  his  Brutus — but  no 
man  could  deny  the  great  mind  in  Hamlet. 
The  best  instance  of  all,  however,  is  Tolstoy. 
Right  up  to  to-day,  whenever  he  likes  he 
can  be  cleverer  than  the  cleverest.  Yet  at 
times  he  is  a  schoolboy.  This  is  the  most 
interesting  and  enviable  trait  in  him. 

112 

In  Troilus  and  Cressida  Thersites  says  : 
"  Shall  the  elephant  Ajax  carry  it  thus  ? 
He  beats  me,  and  I  rail  at  him  :  0  worthy 
satisfaction  !  would  it  were  otherwise  ;  that 
I  could  beat  him,  whilst  he  railed  at  me." 
Dostoevsky  might  have  said  the  same  of 
his  opponents.  He  pursued  them  with 
stings,  sarcasm,  abuse,  and  they  drove 
him  to  a  white  heat  by  their  quiet  assurance 
and  composure.  .  .  .  The  present-day  ad- 
mirers of  Dostoevsky  quietly  believe  in  the 
teachings    of    their    master.    Does    it    not 

120 


mean  that  de  facto  tliey  have  betrayed  him 
and  gone  over  to  the  side  of  his  enemies. 

113  . 

The    opinion    has    gained    ground    that 

Turgenev's  ideal  women — Natalie,  Elena, 
Marianna — are  created  in  the  image  and 
likeness  of  Poushkin's  Tatyana.  The  critics 
have  been  misled  by  external  appearances. 
To  Poushkin  his  Tatyana  appears  as  a 
vestal  guarding  the  sacred  flame  of  high 
morality — because  such  a  job  is  not  fitting 
for  a  male.  The  Pretender  in  Boris  Godunov 
says  to  the  old  monk  Pimen,  who  preaches 
meekness  and  submission  :  "  But  you  fought 
under  the  walls  of  Kazan,  etc."  That  is 
a  man's  work.  But  in  the  hours  of  peace 
and  leisure  the  fighter  needs  his  own  hearth- 
side,  he  must  feel  assured  that  at  home  his 
rights  are  safely  guarded.  This  is  the  point 
of  Tatyana's  last  words :  "  I  belong  to 
another,  and  shall  remain  forever  true  to 
him."  But  in  Turgenev  woman  appears 
as  the  judge  and  the  reward,  sometimes 
even  the  inspirer  of  victorious  man.  There 
is  a  great  difference. 


121 


114 

Irom  a  German  Introduction  to  Philosophy. 
— "  We  shall  maintain  the  opinion  that  meta- 
physics, as  the  crown  of  the  particular 
sciences,  is  possible  and  desirable,  and  that 
to  it  falls  the  task  intermediate  between 
theory  and  practice,  experiment  and  anticipa- 
tion, mind  and  feeling,  the  task  of  weighing 
probabilities,  balancing  arguments,  and 
reconciling  difficulties."  Thus  metaphysics 
is  a  weighing  of  probabilities.  Ergo — further 
than  probable  conclusions  it  cannot  go. 
Thus  why  do  metaphysicians  pretend  to 
universal  and  obligatory,  established  and 
eternal  judgments  ?  They  go  beyond  them- 
selves. In  the  domain  of  metaphysics  there 
cannot  and  must  not  be  any  established 
behefs.  The  word  established  loses  all  its 
sense  in  the  connection.  It  is  reasonable 
to  speak  of  eternal  hesitation  and  temporality 
of  thought. 

From  another  Introduction  to  Philosophy^ 
also  German.  "  Compared  with  the  delusion 
of  the  materiaHsts  .  .  .  the  wretchedest 
worshipper  of  idols  seems  to  us  a  being 
capable  of  apprehending  to  a  certain  degree 
the  great  meaning  and  essence  of  things." 
Perhaps  this  thought  strayed  in  accidentally 
122 


among  the  huge  herd  of  the  other  thoughts 
of  the  professor,  soHttle  does  it  resemble  the 
rest.  But  even  so,  it  loses  none  of  its  interest. 
If  the  materialists  here  spoken  of,  those  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  Biichner,  Vogt,  Mole- 
schot,  all  of  them  men  who  stood  on  the 
pinnacle  of  natural  science,  were  capable  of 
proving  in  the  realm  of  philosophy  more 
uninformed  than  the  nakedest  savage,  then 
it  follows,  not  only  that  science  has  nothing 
in  common  with  philosophy,  but  that  the 
two  are  even  hostile.  Therefore  we  ought 
to  go  to  the  savages,  not  to  civilise  them, 
hut  even  to  learn  philosophy  from  them.  A 
Papuan  or  a  Tierra  del  Fuegan  delivering 
a  lecture  in  philosophy  to  the  professors 
of  the  Berlin  University — Friedrich  Paulsen, 
for  example — is  a  curious  sight.  I  say  to 
Friedrich  Paulsen,  and  not  to  Biichner  or 
Moleschot,  because  Paulsen  is  also  an 
educated  person,  and  therefore  his  philosophic 
sensibility  may  have  suffered  from  contact 
with  science,  even  if  not  so  badly  as  that 
of  the  materialists.  He  needs  the  assistance 
of  a  red-skin.  f.aaster.  Why  have  German 
professors  so  little  daring  or  enterprise  ? 
Why  should  not  Paulsen,  on  his  own  in- 
itiative, go  to  Patagonia  lo  perfect  himself 
in  philosophy  ? — or  at  least  send  his  pupils 

123 


there,  and  preach  broadcast  the  new  pil- 
grimage. And  now  lo  and  behold  he  has 
hatched  an  original  and  fertile  idea,  so  he 
will  stick  in  a  corner  with  it,  so  that  even 
if  you  wanted  you  could  not  get  a  good 
look  at  it.  The  idea  is  important  and 
weighty :  our  philosophers  would  lose 
nothing  by  sitting  at  the  feet  of  the 
savages. 

ii6 
From  a  History  of  Ethics. — "  Doubts 
concerning  the  existence  or  the  possibility 
of  discovering  a  moral  norm  have,  of  course 
(I  underline  it),  proved  a  stimulus  to  a  new 
speculative  establishing  of  ethics,  just  as 
the  denial  of  the  possibility  of  knowledge 
led  to  the  discovery  of  the  condition  of 
knowledge."  With  this  proposition  the 
author  does  not  play  hide-and-seek,  as 
Paulsen  with  his.  He  places  it  in  a  con- 
spicuous position,  in  a  conspicuous  section 
of  his  book,  and  accompanies  it  with  the 
trumpeting  herald  "  of  course."  But  only 
one  thing  is  clear  :  namely,  that  the  majority 
share  the  opinion  of  Professor  Yodl,  to 
whom  the  quoted  words  belong.  So  that 
the  first  assumption  of  ethics  has  as  its 
foundation  the  consensus  sapientium.  It 
is  enough. 

124 


"7 

"  The  normative  theory,"  which  has  taken 

such  hold  in  Germany  and  Russia,  bears 
the  stamp  of  that  free  and  easy  self-assurance 
which  characterises  the  state  of  content- 
ment, and  which  does  not  desire,  even  for 
the  sake  of  theoretical  perfection,  to  take 
into  consideration  the  divided  state  of  soul 
which  usually  accompanies  discontent. 
Windelband  (Praeludien,  p.  313)  is  evidence 
of  this.  He  exposes  himself  with  the  naive 
frankness  almost  of  an  irrational  creature, 
and  is  not  only  unashamed,  but  even  proud 
of  his  part.  "  Philosophic  research,"  he 
says,  *'  is  possible  only  to  those  who  are 
convinced  that  the  norm  of  the  universal 
imperative  is  supreme  above  individual 
activities,  and  that  such  a  norm  is  discover- 
able." Not  every  witness  will  give  evidence 
so  honestly.  It  amounts  to  this :  that 
philosophic  research  is  not  a  search  after 
truth,  but  a  conspiracy  amongst  people 
who  dethrone  truth  and  exalt  instead  the 
all-binding  norm.  The  task  is  truly  ethical : 
morality  always  was  and  always  will  be 
utilitarian  and  bullying.  Its  active  principle 
is  :  He  who  is  not  with  us,  is  against  us. 


125 


ii8 

"  Ifj  besides  the  reality  which  is  evident 
to  us,  we  were  susceptible  to  another  form 
of  reality,  chaotic,  lawless,  then  this  latter 
could  not  be  the  subject  of  thought." 
(Riehl — Philosophie  der  Gegenzvart.)  This  is 
one  of  the  a  priori  of  critical  philosophy — 
one  of  the  unproved  first  assumptions,  evi- 
dently. It  is  only  an  expression  in  other 
words  of  Windelband's  assertion  quoted 
above,  concerning  the  ethical  basis  of  the 
law  of  causation.  Thus,  the  a  priori  of 
contemporary  thought  convince  us  more 
and  more  that  Nietzsche's  instinct  was  not 
at  fault.  The  root  of  all  our  philosophies 
lies,  not  in  our  objective  observations, 
but  in  the  demands  of  our  own  heart,  in 
the  subjective,  moral  will,  and  therefore 
science  cannot  be  uprooted  except  we  first 
destroy  morality. 

119 

One  of  the  lofty  truisms — *'  The  philoso- 
pher conquers  passion  by  perceiving  it,  the 
artist  by  bodying  it  forth."  In  German 
it  sounds  still  more  lofty  :  but  does  not  for 
that  reason  approach  any  nearer  to  the 
truth.  "  Der  Philosoph  ilberzvi^idet  die 
Leidenscha/t,     inde??i     er     sie     begreift — der 

126 


Kilnstler,  indem  er  sie  darstellf.^^     (Windel- 
band,  Praehidien,  p.  198.) 

120 

The  Germans  always  try  to  get  at 
Allgemeingultigkeit.  Well,  if  the  problem 
of  knowledge  is  to  fathom  all  the  depths 
of  actual  life,  then  experience,  in  so  far  as 
it  repeats  itself,  is  uninteresting,  or  at  least 
has  a  limit  of  interest.  It  is  necessary, 
however,  to  know  what  nobody  yet  knows, 
and  therefore  we  must  walk,  not  on  the 
common  road  of  Jllgemetngultigkeit,  but  on 
new  tracks,  which  have  never  yet  seen 
human  feet.  Thus  rnorality,  which  lays 
down  definite  rules  and  thereby  guards  life 
for  a  time  from  any  surprise,  exists  only  by 
convention,  and  in  the  end  collapses  before 
the  non-moral  surging-up  of  individual 
human  aspirations.  Laws — all  of  them — 
have  only  a  regulating  value,  and  are  neces- 
sary only  to  those  who  want  rest  and 
security.  But  the  first  and  essential  con- 
dition of  life  is  lawlessness.  Laws  are  a 
refreshing  sleep — lawlessness  is  creative 
ACtivitv. 


127 


121 

A  =3  A. — They  say  that  logic  does  not 
need  this  postulate,  and  could  easily  develop 
it  by  deduction.  I  think  not.  On  the 
contrary,  in  my  opinion,  logic  could  not 
exist  without  this  premiss.  Meanwhile  it 
has  a  purely  empirical  origin.  In  the  realm 
of  fact,  A  is  always  more  or  less  equal  to 
A.  But  it  might  be  otherwise.  The  uni- 
verse might  be  so  constituted  as  to  admit 
of  the  most  fantastic  metamorphoses.  That 
which  now  equals  A  would  successively 
equal  B  and  then  C,  and  so  on.  At  present 
a  stone  remains  long  enough  a  stone,  a 
plant  a  plant,  an  animal  an  animal.  But  it 
might  be  that  a  stone  changed  into  a  plant 
before  our  eyes,  and  the  plant  into  an 
animal.  That  there  is  nothing  unthinkable 
in  such  a  supposition  is  proved  by  the  theory 
of  evolution.  This  theory  only  puts  cen- 
turies in  place  of  seconds.  So  that,  in  spite 
of  the  risk  to  which  I  expose  myself  from 
the  admirers  of  the  famous  Epicurean 
system,  I  am  compelled  to  repeat  once  more 
that  anything  you  please  may  come  from 
anything  you  please,  that  A  may  not  equal 
A,  and  that  consequently  logic  is  dependent, 
for  its  soundness,  on  the  empirically-derived 
law  of  the  unchangeableness  of  the  external 

12S 


world.  Admit  the  possibility  of  super- 
natural interference — and  logic  will  lose  that 
certitude  and  inevitability  of  its  conclusions 
which  at  present  is  so  attractive  to  us. 

122 

The  effort  to  understand  people,  life,  the 
universe  prevents  us  from  getting  to  know 
them  at  all.  Since  "to  know"  and  "to 
understand"  are  two  concepts  which  are 
not  only  non-identical,  but  just  the  opposite 
of  one  another  in  meaning  ;  in  spite  of  their 
being  in  constant  use  as  synonyms.  We 
think  we  have  understood  a  phenomenon 
if  we  have  included  it  in  a  list  of  others, 
previously  known  to  us.  And,  since  all  our 
mental  aspiration  reduces  itself  to  under- 
standing the  universe,  we  refuse  to  know  a 
great  deal  which  will  not  adapt  itself  to  the 
plane  .urface  of  the  contemporary  world- 
conceptions.  For  instance  the  Leibnitz 
question,  put  by  Kant  into  the  basis  of  the 
critique  of  reason  i  "  How  can  we  know  a 
thing  outside  us,  if  it  does  not  enter  into 
us  ?  "  It  is  non-understandable  ;  that  is, 
it  does  not  agree  with  our  notion  of  under- 
standing. Hence  it  follows  that  it  must  be 
squeezed  out  of  the  field  of  view — which  is 
exactly  what  Kant  attempted  to  do.  To 
I  129 


us  it  seems,  on  the  contrary,  that  in  the 
interests  of  knowing  we  should  sacrifice, 
and  gladly,  understanding,  since  under- 
standing in  any  case  is  a  secondary  affair. — 
Z«  fragmentarish  ist  Welt  und  Leben  I  .  .  . 


130 


PART   II 

Nur  fur  Schwindeljreie. 

(From  Alpine.  Recollections.) 


I 

Light  reveals  to  us  beauty — but  also  ugli- 
ness. Throw  vitriol  in  the  face  of  a  beautiful 
woman,  and  the  beauty  is  gone,  no  power 
on  earth  will  enable  us  to  look  upon  her 
with  the  same  rapture  as  before.  Could 
even  the  sincerest,  deepest  love  endure  the 
change  ?  True,  the  idealists  will  hasten 
to  say  that  love  overcomes  all  things.  But 
idealism  needs  be  prompt,  for  if  she  leaves 
us  one  single  moment  in  which  to  see^ 
we  shall  see  such  things  as  are  not  easily 
explained  away.  That  is  why  idealists  stick 
so  tight  so  logic.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye 
logic  will  convey  us  to  the  remotest  con- 
clusions and  forecasts.  Reality  could  never 
overtake  her.  Love  is  eternal,  and  conse- 
quently a  disfigured  face  will  seem  as  lovely 
to  us  as  a  fresh  one.  This  is,  of  course,  a 
lie,  but  it  helps  to  preserve  old  tastes  and 
obscures  danger.  Real  danger,  however,  was 
never  dispelled  by  words.  In  spite  of 
Schiller  and  eternal  love,  in  the  long  run 


vitriol  triumphs,  and  the  agreeable  young 
man  is  forced  to  abandon  his  beloved  and 
acknowledge  himself  a  fraud.  Light,  the 
source  of  his  life  and  hope,  has  now  destroyed 
hope  and  life  for  him.  He  will  not  return 
to  idealism,  and  he  will  hate  logic  :  light, 
that  seemed  to  him  so  beautiful,  will  have 
become  hideous.  He  will  turn  to  darkness, 
where  logic  and  its  binding  conclusions 
have  no  power,  but  where  the  fancy  is 
free  for  all  her  vagaries.  Without  light  we 
should  never  have  known  that  vitriol  ruins 
beauty.  No  science,  nor  any  art  can  give 
us  what  darkness  gives.  It  is  true,  in  our 
young  days  when  all  was  new,  light  brought 
us  great  happiness  and  joy.  Let  us,  there- 
fore, remember  it  with  gratitude,  as  a 
benefactor  we  no  longer  need.  Do  after  all 
let  us  dispense  with  gratitude,  for  it  belongs 
to  the  calculating,  bourgeois  virtues.  Do 
ut  des.  Let  us  forget  light,  and  gratitude, 
and  the  qualms  of  self-important  idealism, 
let  us  go  bravely  to  meet  the  coming  night. 
She  promises  us  great  power  over  reality. 
Is  it  worth  while  to  give  up  our  old  tastes 
and  lofty  convictions  ?  Love  and  light 
have  not  availed  against  vitriol.  What  a 
horror  would  have  seized  us  at  the  thought, 
once    upon    a    time !    That    short    phrase 

134 


can  annul  all  Schiller.  We  have  shut  our 
eyes  and  stopped  our  ears,  we  have  built 
huge  philosophic  systems  to  shield  us  from 
this  tiny  thought.  And  now — now  it  seems 
we  have  no  more  feeling  for  Schiller  and 
the  great  systems,  we  have  no  pity  on  our 
past  beliefs.  We  now  are  seeking  for  words 
with  which  to  sing  the  praises  of  our  former 
enemy.  Night,  the  dark,  deaf,  impenetrable 
night,  peopled  with  horrors — does  she  not 
now  loom  before  us,  infinitely  beautiful  ? 
Does  she  not  draw  us  with  her  still,  mysteri- 
ous, fathomless  beauty,  far  more  powerfully 
than  noisy,  narrow  day  ?  It  seems  as  if, 
in  a  short  while,  man  will  feel  that  the  same 
incomprehensible,  cherishing  power  which 
threw  us  out  into  the  universe  and  set  us, 
like  plants,  to  reach  to  the  light,  is  now 
gradually  transferring  us  to  a  new  direction, 
where  a  new  life  awaits  us  with  all  its  stores. 
Fata  volentem  ducunt,  nolentem  trahunt. 
And  perhaps  the  time  is  near  when  the 
impassioned  poet,  casting  a  last  look  to  his 
past,  will  boldly  and  gladly  cry  : 

Hide  thyself f  sun  !    0  darkness^  he  welcome  ! 


135 


2 

Psychology  at  last  leads  us  to  conclude 
that  the  most  generous  human  impulses 
spring  from  a  root  of  egoism.  Tolstoy's 
"  love  to  one's  neighbour,"  for  example, 
proves  to  be  a  branch  of  the  old  self-love. 
The  same  may  be  said  of  Kant's  idealism, 
and  even  of  Plato's.  Though  they  glorify 
the  service  of  the  idea,  in  practice  they 
succeed  in  getting  out  of  the -vicious  circle 
of  egoism  no  better  than  the  ordinary 
mortal,  who  is  neither  a  genius  nor  a  flower 
of  culture.  In  my  eyes  this  is  "  almost " 
an  absolute  truth.  (It  is  never  wrong  to 
add  the  retractive  "  almost  "  ;  truth  is  too 
much  inclined  to  exaggerate  its  own  import- 
ance, and  one  must  guard  oneself  against  its 
despotic  authority.)  Thus — all  men  are 
egoists.  Hence  follows  a  great  deal.  I 
even  think  this  proposition  might  provide 
better  grounds  for  metaphysical  conclusions 
than  the  doubtful  capacity  for  compassion 
and  love  for  one's  neighbour  which  has  been 
so  tempting  to  dogma.  For  some  reason 
men  have  imagined  that  love  for  oneself 
is  more  natural  and  comprehensible  than 
love  for  another.  Why  ?  Love  for  others 
is  only  a  little  rarer,  less  widely  diffused 
than  love  to  oneself.  But  then  hippopotami 
136 


and  rhinoceros,  even  in  their  own  tropical 
regions,  are  less  frequent  than  horses  and 
mules.  Does  it  follow  that  they  are  less 
natural  and  transcendental  ?  Positivism  is 
not  incumbent  upon  blood-thirsty  savages. 
Nay,  as  we  know,  many  of  them  are  less 
positive-minded  than  our  learned  men.  For 
instance,  a  future  life  is  to  them  such  an 
infallible  reality  that  they  even  enter  into 
contracts,  part  of  which  is  to  be  fulfilled 
in  the  next  world.  A  German  metaphy- 
sician won't  go  as  far  as  that.  Hence  it 
follows  that  the  way  to  know  the  other 
world  is  not  by  any  means  through  love, 
sympathy,  and  self-denial,  as  Schopenhauer 
taught.  On  the  contrary,  it  appears  as  if 
love  for  others  were  only  an  impediment  to 
metaphysical  flights.  Love  and  sympathy 
chain  the  eye  to  the  misery  of  this  earth, 
where  such  a  wide  field  for  active  charity 
opens  out.  The  materialists  were  mostly 
very  good  men — a  fact  which  bothered  the 
historians  of  philosophy.  They  preached 
Matter,  believed  in  nothing,  and  were  ready 
to  perform  all  kinds  of  sacrifices  for  their 
neighbours.  How  is  this  ?  It  is  a  case  of 
clearest  logical  consequence :  man  loves 
his  neighbour,  he  sees  that  heaven  is 
indifferent  to  misery,  therefore  he  takes  upon 


himself  the  role  of  Providence.  Were  he 
indifferent  to  the  sufferings  of  others,  he 
would  easily  become  an  idealist  and  leave 
his  neighbours  to  their  fate.  Love  and 
compassion  kill  belief,  and  make  a  man  a 
positivist  and  a  materialist  in  his  philo- 
sophical outlook.  If  he  feels  the  misery  of 
others,  he  leaves  off  meditating  and  wants 
to  act.  Man  only  thinks  properly  when  he 
realises  he  has  nothing  to  do,  his  hands  arc 
tied.  That  is  why  any  profound  thought 
must  arise  from  despair.  Optimism,  on 
the  other  hand,  the  readiness  to  jump  hastily 
from  one  conclusion  to  another,  may  be 
regarded  as  an  inevitable  sign  of  narrow 
self-sufficiency,  which  dreads  doubt  and  is 
consequently  always  superficial.  If  a  man 
offers  you  a  solution  of  eternal  questions,  it 
shows  he  has  not  even  begun  to  think  about 
them.  He  has  only  "  acted."  Perhaps  it  is 
not  necessary  to  think — who  can  say  how 
we  ought  or  ought  not  to  live  ?  And  how 
could  we  be  brought  to  live  "  as  we  ought," 
when  our  own  nature  is  and  always  will  be 
an  incalculable  mystery.  There  is  no  mis- 
take about  it,  nobody  wants  to  think.  I 
do  not  speak  here  of  logical  thinking. 
That,  like  any  other  natural  function, 
gives  man  great  pleasure.     For  this  reason 

138 


philosophical  systems,  however  complicated, 
arouse  real  and  permanent  interest  in  the 
public  provided  they  only  require  from  man 
the  logical  exercise  of  the  mind,  and  nothing 
else.  But  to  think — really  to  think — 
surely  this  means  a  relinquishing  of  logic. 
It  means  living  a  new  life.  It  means  a 
permanent  sacrifice  of  the  dearest  habits, 
tastes,  attachments,  without  even  the  assur- 
ance that  the  sacrifice  will  bring  any  com- 
pensation. Artists  and  philosophers  like 
to  imagine  the  thinker  with  a  stern  face,  a 
profound  look  which  penetrates  into  the 
unseen,  and  a  noble  bearing — an  eagle 
preparing  for  flight.  Not  at  all.  A  think- 
ing man  is  one  who  has  lost  his  balance, 
in  the  vulgar,  not  in  the  tragic  sense. 
Hands  raking  the  air,  feet  flying,  face  scared 
and  bewildered,  he  is  a  caricature  of  help- 
lessness and  pitiable  perplexity.  Look  at 
the  aged  Turgenev,  his  Poems  in  Prose  and 
his  letter  to  Tolstoy.  Maupassant  thus 
tells  of  his  meeting  with  Turgenev:  "  There 
entered  a  giant  with  a  silvery  head."  Quite 
so  !  The  majestic  patriarch  and  master,  of 
course !  The  myth  of  giants  with  silver 
locks  is  firmly  established  in  the  heart  of 
man.  Then  suddenly  enters  Turgenev  in 
his   Prose   Poems — pale,   pitiful,   fluttering 

139 


like  a  bird  that  Kas  been  "  winged."  Tur- 
genev,  who  has  taught  us  everything — how 
can  he  be  so  fluttered  and  bewildered  ? 
How  could  he  write  his  letter  to  Tolstoy  ? 
Did  he  not  know  that  Tolstoy  was  finished, 
the  source  of  his  creative  activity  dried  up, 
that  he  must  seek  other  activities.  Of 
course  he  knew — and  still  he  wrote  that 
letter.  But  it  was  not  for  Tolstoy,  nor  even 
for  Russian  literature,  which,  of  course,  is 
not  kept  going  by  the  death-bed  letters  and 
covenants  of  its  giants.  In  the  dreadful 
moments  of  the  end,  Turgenev,  in  spite  of 
his  noble  size  and  silver  locks,  did  not  know 
what  to  say  or  where  to  look  for  support 
and  consolation.  So  he  turned  to  literature, 
to  which  he  had  given  his  life.  .  .  .  He 
yearned  that  she,  whom  he  had  served  so 
long  and  loyally,  should  just  once  help  him, 
save  him  from  the  horrible  and  thrice  sense- 
less nightmare.  He  stretched  out  his 
withered,  numbing  hands  to  the  printed 
sheets  which  still  preserve  the  traces  of  the 
soul  of  a  living,  suffering  man.  He  addressed 
his  late  enemy  Tolstoy  with  the  most 
flattering  name :  "  Great  writer  of  the 
Russian  land  "  ;  recollected  that  he  was  his 
contemporary,  that  he  himself  was  a  great 
writer  of  the  Russian  land.    But  this  he 

140 


did  not  express  aloud.     He  only  said,  "  I 

can   no   longer "     He   praised   a   strict 

school  of  literary  and  general  education. 
To  the  last  he  tried  to  preserve  his  bearing 
of  a  giant  with  silv.ery  locks.  And  we  were 
gratified.  The  same  persons  who  are  indig- 
nant at  Gogol's  correspondence,  quote  Tur- 
genev's  letter  with  reverence.  The  attitude 
is  everything.  Turgenev  knew  how  to  pose 
passably  well,  and  this  is  ascribed  to  him  as 
his  greatest  merit.  Mundus  vult  decipi, 
ergo  decipiatur.  But  Gogol  and  Turgenev 
felt  substantially  the  same.  Had  Turgenev 
burnt  his  own  manuscripts  and  talked  of 
himself  instead  of  Tolstoy,  before  death, 
he  would  have  been  accounted  mad.  Moral- 
ists would  have  reproached  him  for  his 
display  of  extreme  egoism.  .  .  .  And  Phil- 
osophy ?  Philosophy  seems  to  be  getting  rid 
of  certain  prejudices.  At  the  moment  when 
men  are  least  likely  to  play  the  hypocrite 
and  lie  to  themselves  Turgenev  and  Gogol 
placed  their  personal  fate  higher  than  the 
destinies  of  Russian  literature.  Does  not 
this  betray  a  "  secret  "  to  us  ?  Ought  we 
not  to  see  in  absolute  egoism  an  inalienable 
and  great,  yes,  very  great  quality  of  human 
nature  2  Psychology,  ignoring  the  threats 
of  morality,  has  led  us  to  a  new  knowledge. 

141 


Yet  still,  in  spite  of  the  instances  we  have 
given,  the  mass  of  people  will,  as  usual,  see 
nothing  but  malice  in  every  attempt  to 
reveal  the  human  impulses  that  underlie 
"  lofty  "  motives.  To  be  merely  men  seems 
humiliating  to  men.  So  now  malice  will 
also  be  detected  in  my  interpretation  of 
Turgenev's  letter,  no  matter  what  assurance 
I  offer  to  the  contrary. 

3 

On  Method. — A  certain  naturalist    made 

the  following  experiment :  A  glass  jar  was 
divided  into  two  halves  by  a  perfectly 
transparent  glass  partition.  On  the  one 
side  of  the  •  partition  he  placed  a  pike,  on 
the  other  a  number  of  small  fishes  such  as 
form  the  prey  of  the  pike.  The  pike  did 
not  notice  the  partition,  and  hurled  itself 
on  its  prey,  with,  of  course,  the  result  only 
of  a  bruised  nose.  The  same  happened 
many  times,  and  always  the  same  result. 
At  last,  seeing  all  its  efforts  ended  so  pain- 
fully, the  pike  abandoned  the  hunt,  so  that 
in  a  few  days,  when  the  partition  had  been 
removed  it  continued  to  swim  about  among 
the  small  fry  without  daring  to  attack 
them.  .  .  .  Does  not  the  same  happen  with 
us  ?  Perhaps  the  limits  between  "  this 
142 


world"  and  "the  other  world"  are  also 
essentially  of  an  experimental  origin,  neither 
rooted  in  the  nature  of  things,  as  was  thought 
before  Kant,  or  in  the  nature  of  our  reason, 
as  was  thought  after  Kant.  Perhaps  indeed 
a  partition  does  exist,  and  make  vain  all 
attempts  to  cross  over.  But  perhaps  there 
comes  a  moment  when  the  partition  is 
removed.  In  our  minds,  however,  the  con- 
viction is  firmly  rooted  that  it  is  impossible 
to  pass  certain  limits,  and  painful  to  try  : 
a  conviction  founded  on  experience.  But  in 
this  case  we  should  recall  the  old  scepticism 
of  Hume,  which  idealist  philosophy  has 
regarded  as  mere  subtle  mind-play,  value- 
less after  Kant's  critique.  The  most  lasting 
and  varied  experience  cannot  lead  to  any 
binding  and  universal  conclusion.  Nay,  all 
our  a  priori^  which  are  so  useful  for  a  certain 
time,  become  sooner  or  later  extremely 
harmful.  A  philosopher  should  not  be 
afraid  of  scepticism,  but  should  go  on 
bruising  his  jaw.  Perhaps  the  failure  of 
metaphysics  lies  in  the  caution  and  timidity 
of  metaphysicians,  who  seem  ostensibly 
so  brave.  They  have  sought  for  rest — 
which  they  describe  as  the  highest  boon. 
Whereas  they  should  have  valued  more 
than  anything  restlessness,  aimlessness,  even 

143 


purposelessness.  How  can  you  tell  wlien  the 
partition  will  be  removed  ?  Perhaps  at 
the  very  moment  when  man  ceased  his 
painful  pursuit,  settled  all  his  questions 
and  rested  on  his  laurels,  inert,  he  could 
with  one  strong  push  have  swept  through 
the  pernicious  fence  which  separated  him 
from  the  unknowable.  There  is  no  need 
for  man  to  move  according  to  a  carefully- 
considered  plan.  This  is  a  purely  sesthetic 
demand  which  need  not  bind  us.  Let  man 
senselessly  and  deliriously  knock  his  head 
against  the  wall — if  the  wall  go  down  at 
last,  will  he  value  his  triumph  any  the  le?s  ? 
Unfortunately  for  us  the  illusion  has  been 
established  in  us  that  plan  and  purpose 
are  the  best  guarantee  of*  success.  What  a 
delusion  it  is  !  The  opposite  is  true.  The 
DesL  of  all  that  genius  has  revealed  to  us 
has  been  revealed  as  the  resiJt  of  lantastic, 
erratic,  apparently  ridiculous  and  useless,  but 
relentlessly  stubborn  seeking.  Columbus, 
tired  of  sitting  on  the  same  spot,  sailed 
west  to  look  for  India.  And  genius,  in 
spite  of  vulgar  conception,  is  a  condition  of 
chaos  and  unutterable  restlessness.  Not 
for  nothing  has  genius  been  counted  kin  to 
madness.  Genius  flings  itself  hitner  and 
thither  because  it  has  not  the  Sitzfleisch 
144 


necessary  for  industrious  success  in  medio- 
crity. We  may  be  sure  that  earth  has 
seen  much  more  genius  than  history  has 
recorded ;  since  genius  is  acknowledged 
only  when  it  has  been  serviceable.  When 
the  tossing-about  has  led  to  no  useful  issue 
— which  is  the  case  in  the  majority  of 
instances — it  arouses  only  a  feeling  of 
disgust  and  abomination  in  all  witnesses. 
"  He  can't  rest  and  he  can't  let  others  rest." 
If  Lermontov  and  Dostoevsky  had  lived  in 
times  when  there  was  no  demand  for  books, 
nobody  would  have  noticed  them.  Ler- 
montov*s  early  death  would  have  passed 
unregretted.  Perhaps  some  settled  and 
virtuous  citizen  would  have  remarked,  weary 
of  the  young  man's  eternal  and  dangerous 
freaks  :  "  For  a  dog  a  dog's  death."  The 
same  of  Gogol,  Tolstoy,  Poushkin.  Now  they 
are  praised  because  they  left  interesting 
books.  .  .  .  And  so  we  need  pay  no  atten- 
tion to  the  cry  about  the  futility  and  worth- 
lessness  of  scepticism,  even  scepticism  pure 
and  unadulterated,  scepticism  which  has 
no  ulterior  motive  of  clearing  the  way  for  a 
new  creed.  To  knock  one's  head  against 
the  wall  out  of  hatred  for  the  wall :  to 
beat  against  established  and  obstructive 
ideas,  because  one  detests  them :   is  it  not 

K  145 


an  attractive  proposition  ?  And  then,  to 
see  ahead  uncertainly  and  limitless  possi- 
bilities, instead  of  up-to-date  "  ideals,"  is 
not  this  too  fascinating  ?  The  highest  good 
is  rest  !  I  shall  not  argue :  de  gustibus 
aut  nihil  aut  bene.  .  .  .  By  the  way,  isn't 
it  a  superb  principle  ?  And  this  superb 
principle  has  been  arrived  at  perfectly  by 
chance,  unfortunately  not  by  me,  but  by 
one  of  the  comical  characters  in  Tchek- 
hov's  Seagull.  He  mixed  up  two  Latin 
proverbs,  and  the  result  was  a  splendid 
maxim  which,  in  order  to  become  an  a 
priori,  awaits  only  universal  acceptance. 

4 

Metaphysicians  praise  the  transcendental, 

and  carefully  avoid  it.  Nietzsche  hated 
metaphysics,  he  praised  the  earth — bleib 
nur  der  Erde  treu,  0  meine  Bruder — and 
always  lived  in  the  realm  of  the  transcen- 
dental. Of  course  the  metaphysicians  be- 
have better  :  this  is  indisputable.  He  who 
would  be  a  teacher  must  proclaim  the  meta- 
physical point  of  view,  and  he  may  become 
a  hero  without  ever  smelling  powder.  In 
these  anxious  days,  when  positivism  seems 
to  fall  short,  one  cannot  do  better  than  turn 
to  metaphysics.     Then  the  young  man  need 

146 


not  any  more  envy  Alexander  the  Mace- 
donian. With  the  assistance  of  a  few  books 
not  only  earthly  states  are  conquered,  but 
the  whole  mysterious  universe.  Metaphysics 
is  the  great  art  of  swerving  round  dangerous 
experience.  So  metaphysicians  should  be 
called  the  positivists  far  excellence.  They 
do  not  despise  all  experience,  as  they  assert, 
but  only  the  dangerous  experiences.  They 
adapt  the  safest  of  all  methods  of  self- 
defence,  what  the  English  call  protective 
mimicry.  Let  us  repeat  to  all  students — 
professors  know  it  already  :  he  who  would 
be  a  sincere  metaphysician  must  avoid 
risky  experience.  Schiller  once  asked  :  How 
can  tragedy  give  delight  ?  The  answer 
— to  put  it  in  our  own  words — was  :  If  we 
are  to  obtain  delight  from  tragedy,  it  must 
be  seen  only  upon  the  stage. — In  order  to 
love  the  transcendental  it  also  should  be 
known  only  from  the  stage,  or  from  books 
of  the  philosophers.  This  is  called  idealism, 
the  nicest  word  ever  invented  by  philoso- 
phising men. 

5 

Poetae  nascuntur. — Wonderful  is  man. 
Knowing  nothing  about  it,  he  asserts  the 
existence  of  an  objective  impossibility.  Even 
a  little  while  ago,  before  the  invention  of 

H7 


the  telephone  and  telegraph,  men  would 

have  declared  it  impossible  for  Europe  to 

converse  with  America.    Now  it  is  possible. 

We  cannot  produce  poets,  therefore  we  say 

they  are  born.    Certainly  we  cannot  make 

a   child  a   poet  by  forcing  him   to  study 

literary    models,    from    the    most    ancient 

to  the  most  modern.    Neither  will  anybody 

hear  us  in  America  no  matter  how  loud  we 

shout  here.    To  make  a  poet  of  a  man, 

he  must  not  be  developed  along  ordinary 

lines.     Perhaps  books  should  be  kept  from 

him.     Perhaps  it  is  necessary  to  perform 

some   apparently   dangerous   operation   on 

him  :    fracture  his  skull  or  throw  him  out 

of  a  fourth-storey  window.    I  will  refrain 

from    recommending   these   methods   as   a 

substitute  for  paedagogy.     But  that  is  not 

the  point.     Look  at   the  great   men,   and 

the  poets.     Except  John  Stuart  Mill  and 

a  couple  of  other  positivist  thinkers,  who 

had  learned  fathers  and  virtuous  mothers, 

none  of   the   great   men   can  boast  of,  or 

better,  complain  of,  a  proper   upbringing. 

In   their  lives   nearly   always  the   decisive 

part    was    played    by    accident,    accident 

which  reason  would  dub  meaninglessness, 

if  reason  ever  dared  raise  its  voice  against 

obvious  success.     Something  like  a  broken 

148 


skull  or  a  fall  from  the  fourth  floor— not 
metaphorically,  but  often  absolutely  literally 
— has  proved  the  commencement,  usually 
concealed  but  occasionally  avowed,  of  the 
activity  of  genius.  But  we  repeat  auto- 
matically :  poetae  nascuntur,  and  are  deeply 
convinced  that  this  extraordinary  truth 
is  so  lofty  it  needs  no  verification. 

6 

"  Until  Apollo  calls  him  to  the  sacrifice, 
ignobly   the  poet  is  plunged  in  the  cares 
of  this  shoddy  world ;    silent  is  his  lyre, 
cold  sleeps  his  soul,  of  all  the  petty  children 
of  earth  most  petty  it  seems  is  he."  Pisaryev, 
the  critic,  was  exasperated  by  these  verses. 
Presumably,  if  they  had  not  belonged  to 
Poushkin,  all  the  critics  along  with  Pisaryev 
would    have    condemned    them    and    their 
author    to     oblivion.       Suspicious     verse ! 
Before   Apollo   calls   to    him — the   poet   is 
the  most  insignificant  of  mortals !    In  his 
free  hours,   the  ordinary  man  finds  some 
more  or  less   distinguished   distraction  for 
himself  :    he  hunts,  attends  exhibitions  of 
pictures,  or   the  theatre,  and  finally  rests 
in  the  bosom  of  his  family.     But  the  poet 
is    incapable    of    normal    existence.     Im- 
mediately   he    has    finished    with    Apollo, 

149 


forgetting  all  about  altars  and  sacrifices, 
he  proceeds  to  occupy  himself  with  unworthy 
objects.  Or  he  abandons  himself  to  the 
dolce  far  niente,  the  customary  pastime  of 
all  favourites  of  the  Muses.  Let  us  here 
remark  that  not  only  all  poets,  btit  all 
writers  and  artists-  in  general  are  inclined 
to  lead  bad  lives.  Think  what  Tolstoy 
tells  us,  in  Confession  and  elsewhere, 
of  the  best  representatives  of  literature  in 
the  fifties.  On  the  whole  it  is  just  as 
Poushkin  says  in  his  verses.  Whilst  he  is 
engaged  in  composition,  an  author  is  a 
creature  of  some  consequence  :  apart  from 
this,  he  is  nothing.  Why  are  Apollo 
and  the  Muses  so  remiss  ?  Why  do  they 
draw  to  themselves  wayward  or  vicious 
votaries,  instead  of  rewarding  virtue  ?  We 
dare  not  suspect  the  gods,  even  the  de- 
throned, of  bad  intentions.  Apollo  loved 
virtuous  persons — and  yet  virtuous  persons 
are  evidently  mediocre  and  unfit  for  the 
sacred  offices.  If  any  man  is  overcome  with 
a  great  desire  to  serve  the  god  of  song, 
let  him  get  rid  of  his  virtues  at  once.  Curious 
that  this  truth  is  so  completely  unknown 
to  men.  They  think  that  through  virtue 
they  can  truly  deserve  the  favour  and 
choice   of   Apollo.    And   since   industry   is 

150 


the  first  virtue,  they  peg  away,  morning, 
noon,  and  night.  Of  course,  the  more  they 
work  the  less  they  do.  Which  really  puzzles 
and  annoys  them.  They  even  fling  aside 
the  sacred  arts,  and  all  the  labours  of  a 
devotee ;  they  give  themselves  up  to  idleness 
and  other  bad  habits.  And  sometimes 
it  so  happens,  that  just  as  a  man  decides 
that  it  is  all  no  good,  the  Muses  suddenly 
visit  him.  So  it  was  with  Dostoevsky  and 
others.  Schiller  alone  managed  to  get  round 
Apollo.  But  perhaps  it  was  only  his 
biographers  he  got  round.  Germans  are 
so  trustful,  so  easy  to  deceive.  The 
biographers  saw  nothing  unusual  in  Schiller's 
habit  of  keeping  his  feet  in  cold  water 
whilst  he  worked.  No  doubt  they  felt 
that  if  the  divine  poet  had  lived  in  the 
Sahara,  where  water  is  precious  as  gold, 
and  the  inspired  cannot  take  a  footbath 
every  day,  then  the  speeches  of  the  Marquis 
of  Pola  would  have  lacked  half  their  noble- 
ness, at  least.  And  apparently  Schiller  was 
not  so  wonderfully  chaste,  if  he  needed 
such  artificial  resources  in  the  composition 
of  his  fine  speeches.  In  a  word,  we  must 
beHeve  Poushkin.  A  poet  is,  on  the  one 
hand,  among  the  elect ;  on  the  other  hand, 
he  is  one  of  the  most  insignificant  of  mortals. 


Hence  we  can  draw  a  very  consoling  con- 
clusion :  the  most  insignificant  of  men  are 
not  altogether  so  worthless  as  we  imagine^ 
They  may  not  be  fit  to  occupy  government 
positions  or  professorial  chairs,  but  they 
are  often  extremely  at  home  on  Parnassus 
and  such  high  places.  Apollo  rewards  vice, 
and  virtue,  as  everybody  knows,  is  so 
satisfied  with  herself  she  needs  no  reward. 
Then  why  do  the  pessimists  lament  ? 
Leibnitz  was  quite  right :  we  live  in  the 
best  possible  of  worlds.  I  would  even 
suggest  that  we  leave  out  the  modification 
"  possible." 

^.    .  . 

It  is  Das  Ewig  Weiblichey  with  Russian 

writers.  Poushkin  and  Lermontov  loved 
women  and  were  not  afraid  of  them.  Poush- 
kin, who  trusted  his  own  nature,  was  often 
in  love,  and  always  sang  his  love  of  the 
moment.  When  infatuated  with  a 
bacchante,  he  glorified  bacchantes.  When 
he  married,  he  warbled  of  a  modest,  nun- 
like beauty,  his  wife.  A  synthesising  mind 
would  probably  not  know  what  to  do  with 
all  Poushkin's  sorts  of  love.  Nor  is  Lermon- 
tov any  better.  He  abused  women,  but, 
as  Byelinsky  observed  after  meeting  him, 
he  loved  women  more  than  anything  in 

152 


the  world.  And  again,  not  women  of  one 
mould  only  :  any  and  all  attractive  females  : 
the  wild  Bella,  the  lovely  Mary,  Thamar ; 
one  and  all,  no  matter  of  what  race  or 
condition.  Every  time  Lermontov  is  in 
love,  he  assures  us  his  love  is  so  deep  and 
ardent  and  even  moral,  that  we  cannot 
judge  him  without  conpunction.  Vladimir 
Soloviov  alone  was  not  afraid  to  condemn 
him.  He  brought  Poushkin  as  well  as 
Lermontov  to  account  for  their  moral 
irregularities,  and  he  even  went  so  far  as 
to  say  that  it  was  not  he  himself  who  judged 
them,  but  Fate,  in  whose  service  he  acted 
as  public  denouncer.  Lermontov  and  Poush- 
kin, both  dying  young,  had  deserved  death 
for  their  frivolities.  But  there  was  nobody 
else  besides  Vladimir  Soloviov  to  darken  the 
memories  of  the  two  poets.  It  is  true  Tolstoy 
cannot  forgive  Poushkin's  dissolute  life, 
but  he  does  not  apply  to  Fate  for  a  verdict. 
According  to  Tolstoy  morality  can  cope 
even  with  a  Titan  like  Poushkin.  In  Tolstoy's 
view  morality  grows  stronger  the  harder 
the  job  it  has  to  tackle.  It  pardons  the 
weak  offenders  without  waste  of  words, 
but  it  never  forgives  pride  and  self-confi- 
dence. If  Tolstoy's  edicts  had  been  executed, 
all    memorials    to    Poushkin    would    have 

153 


disappeared;  chiefly  because  of  the  poet's 
addiction  to  the  eternal  female.  In  such  a 
case  Tolstoy  is  implacable.  He  admits  the 
the  kind  of  love  whose  object  is  the  establish- 
ing of  a  family,  but  no  more.  Don  Juan  is 
a  hateful  transgressor.  Think  of  Levin,  and 
his  attitude  to  prostitutes.  He  is  exasper- 
ated, indignant,  even  forgets  the  need  for 
compassion,  and  calls  them  "  beasts."  In 
the  eternal  female  Tolstoy  sees  temptation, 
seduction,  sin,  great  danger.  Therefore  it 
is  necessary  to  keep  quite  away  from  the 
danger.  But  surely  danper  is  the  dragon 
which  sruards  every  treasure  on  caxth. 
Axid  again,  no  matter  what  his  precautions, 
a  man  will  meet  his  fate  sooner  or  later, 
and  come  into  conflict  with  the  dragon. 
Surely  this  is  an  axiom.  Pouslikin  and 
Lermontov  loved  danger,  and  therefore 
sought  women.  They  paid  a  heavy  price, 
but  while  they  lived  they  lived  freely  and 
lightly.  If  they  had  cared  to  peep  in  the 
book  of  destinies,  they  might  have  averted 
or  avoided  their  sad  end.  But  they  pre- 
ferred to  trust  their  star — lucky  or  unlucky. 
Tolstoy  was  the  first  among  us — we  cannot 
speak  of  Gogol — who  began  to  fear  life. 
He  was  the  first  to  start  open  moralising. 
In  so  far  as  public  opinion  and  personal 

154 


dignity  demand  it,  he  did  go  to  meet  his 
dangers  :  but  not  a  step  further.  So  he 
avoided  women,  art,  and  philosophy.  Love 
per  se,  that  is,  love  which  does  not  lead  to 
a  family,  like  wisdom  per  se^  which  is  wisdom 
that  has  no  utilitarian  motive,  and  like 
art  for  art^s  sake,  seemed  to  him  the  worst 
of  temptations,  leading  to  the  destruction 
of  the  soul.  When  he  plunged  too  deep 
in  thinking,  he  was  seized  with  panic. 
*'  It  seemed  to  me  I  was  going  mad,  so  I 
went  away  to  the  Bashkirs  for  koumiss." 
Such  confessions  are  common  in  his  works. 
And  surely  there  is  no  other  way  with 
temptations,  than  to  cut  short,  at  once, 
before  it  is  too  late.  Tolstoy  preserved 
himself  on  account  of  his  inborn  instinct 
for  departing  betimes  from  a  dangerous 
situation.  Save  for  this  cautious  prompting 
he  would  probably  have  ended  like  Ler- 
montov  or  Poushkin.  True,  he  might  have 
gone  deeper  into  nature,  and  revealed  us  rare 
secrets,  instead  of  preaching  at  us  abstinence, 
humility,  simplicity  and  so  on.  But  such  luck 
fell  to  the  fate  of  Dostoevsky.  Dostoevsky 
had  very  muddled  relations  with  morality. 
He  was  too  racked  by  disease  and  circum- 
stance to  get  much  profit  out  of  the  rules 
of    morality.    The    hygiene    of    the    soul, 

155 


like  that  of  the  body,  is  beneficial  only 
to  healthy  men.  To  the  sick  it  is  simply 
harmful.  The  more  Dostoevsky  engaged 
himself  with  high  morality,  the  more  in- 
extricably entangled  he  became.  He  wanted 
to  respect  the  personality  in  a  woman, 
and  only  the  personality,  and  so  he  came 
to  the  point  where  he  could  not  look  on 
any  woman,  however  ugly,  with  indifference. 
The  elder  Karamazov  and  his  affair  with 
Elizabeth  Smerdyascha  (Stinking  Lizzie) — 
in  what  other  imagination  could  such  a 
union  have  been  contemplated  ?  Dostoevsky, 
of  course,  reprimands  Karamazov,  andthanks 
to  the  standards  of  modern  criticism,  such 
a  reprimand  is  accounted  sufficient  to 
exonerate  our  author.  But  there  are  other 
standards.  If  a  writer  sets  out  to  tell  you 
that  no  drab  could  be  so  loathsome  that 
her  ugliness  would  make  you  forget  she  was 
woman;  and  if  for  illustration  of  this  novel 
idea  we  are  told  the  history  of  Fiodov 
Karamazov  with  the  deformed,  repulsive 
idiot.  Stinking  Lizzie ;  then,  in  face  of 
such  "  imaginative  art "  it  is  surely  out 
of  place  to  preserve  the  usual  confidence 
in  that  writer.  We  do  not  speak  of  the 
interest  and  appreciation  of  Dostoevsky's 
tastes  and  ideas.     Not  for  one  moment  Vvill 

156 


I  assert  that  those  who  with  Poushkin 
and  Lermontov  can  see  the  Eternal  Female 
only  in  young  and  charming  women,  have 
any  advantage  over  Dostoevsky.  Of  course, 
we  are  not  forbidden  to  live  according  to 
our  tastes,  and  we  may,  like  Tolstoy,  call 
certain  women  "  beasts."  But  who  has 
given  us  the  right  to  assert  that  we  are 
higher  or  better  than  Dostoevsky  ?  Judging 
"  objectively,"  all  the  points  go  to  show  that 
Dostoevsky  is  better — at  any  rate  he  saw 
further,  deeper.  He  could  find  an  original 
interest,  he  could  discover  das  ewig  Weihliche 
where  we  should  see  nothing  of  attraction 
at  all,  where  Goethe  would  avert  his  face. 
Stinking  Lizzie  is  not  a  beast,  as  Levin 
would  say,  but  a  woman  who  is  able,  if 
even  for  a  moment,  to  arouse  a  feeling  of 
love  in  a  man.  And  we  thought  she  was 
worse  than  nothing,  since  she  roused  in 
us  only  disgust.  Dostoevsky  made  a  dis- 
covery, we  with  our  refined  feelings  missed 
it.  His  distorted,  abnormal  sense  showed 
a  greater  sensitiveness,  in  which  our  high 
morality  was  deficient.  .  .  .  And  the  road 
to  the  great  truth  this  time,  as  ever,  is 
through  deformity.  Idealists  will  not  agree. 
They  are  quite  justly  afraid  that  one  may 
not  reach  the  truth,  but  may  get  stuck  in 

157 


the  mud.  Idealists  are  careful  men,  and 
not  nearly  so  stupid  as  their  ideals  would 
lead  us  to  suppose. 

8 
New  ideas,  even  our  own,  do  not  quickly 
conquer    our    sympathies.     We    must    first 
get  accustomed  to  them. 

9 

A  point  of  view. — Every  writer,  thinker — 

even  every  educated  person  thinks  it 
necessary  to  have  a  permanent  point  of 
view.  He  climbs  up  some  elevation  and 
never  climbs  down  again  all  his  days.  What- 
ever he  sees  from  this  point  of  view,  he 
believes  to  be  reality,  truth,  justice,  good — 
and  what  he  does  not  see  he  excludes  from 
existence.  Man  is  not  much  to  blame  for 
this.  Surely  there  is  no  very  great  joy 
in  moving  from  point  of  view  to  point  of 
view,  shifting  one's  camp  from  peak  to 
peak.  We  have  no  wings,  and  "  a  winged 
thought "  is  only  a  nice  metaphor — unless, 
of  course,  it  refers  to  logical  thinking. 
There  to  be  sure  great  volatility  is  usual, 
a  lightness  which  comes  from  perfect  naivete, 
if  not  ignorance.  He  who  really  wishes  to 
know  something,  and  not  merely  to  have 

158 


a  philosophy,  does  not  rely  on  logic  and  is 
not  allured  by  reason.  He  must  clamber 
from  summit  to  summit,  and,  if  necessary, 
hibernate  in  the  dales.  For  a  wide  horizon 
leads  to  illusions,  and  in  order  to  familiarise 
oneself  with  any  object,  it  is  essential  to 
go  close  up  to  it,  touch  it,  feel  it,  examine 
it  from  top  to  bottom  and  on  every  side. 
One  must  be  ready,  should  this  be  impossible 
otherwise,  to  sacrifice  the  customary  position 
of  the  body  :  to  wriggle,  to  He  flat,  to  stand 
on  one's  head,  in  a  word,  to  assume  the 
most  unnatural  of  attitudes.  Can  there 
be  any  question  of  a  permanent  point  of 
view  ?  The  more  mobility  and  elasticity 
a  man  has,  the  less  he  values  the  ordinary 
equilibrium  of  his  body  ;  the  oftener  he 
changes  his  outlook,  the  more  he  will  take 
in.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  he  imagines  that 
from  this  or  the  other  pinnacle  he  has  the 
most  comfortable  survey  of  the  world  and 
life,  leave  him  alone ;  he  will  never  know 
anything.  Nay,  he  does  not  want  to  know, 
he  cares  more  about  his  personal  convenience 
than  about  the  quality  of  his  work.  No 
doubt  he  will  attain  to  fame  and  success, 
and  thus  brilliantly  justify  his  "  point   of 


view." 


159 


10 

Fame. — "  A  thread  from  everyone,  and 
the  naked  will  have  a  shirt."  There  is  no 
beggar  but  has  his  thread  of  cotton,  and  he 
will  not  grudge  it  to  a  naked  man — no, 
nor  even  to  a  fully  dressed  one ;  but  will 
bestow  it  on  the  first  comer.  The  poor, 
who  want  to  forget  their  poverty,  are  very 
ready  with  their  threads.  Moreover,  they 
prefer  to  give  them  to  the  rich,  rather  than 
to  a  fellow-tramp.  To  load  the  rich  with 
benefits,  must  not  one  be  very  rich  indeed  ? 
That  is  why  fame  is  so  easily  got.  An 
ambitious  person  asks  admiration  and  respect 
from  the  crowd,  and  is  rarely  denied.  The 
mob  feel  that  their  throats  are  their  own, 
and  their  arms  are  strong.  Why  not  voci- 
ferate and  clap,  seeing  that  you  can  turn 
the  head  not  only  of  a  beggar  like  yourself, 
but  of  a  future  hero,  God  knows  how 
almighty  a  person.  The  humiliated  citizen 
who  has  hitherto  been  hauled  off  to  the  police 
station  if  he  shouted,  suddenly  feels  that  his 
throat  has  acquired  a  new  value.  Never 
before  has  anyone  given  a  rap  for  his  worth- 
less opinion,  and  now  seven  cities  are  ready 
to  quarrel  for  it,  as  for  the  right  to  claim 
Homer.  The  citizen  is  delighted,  he  shouts 
at  the  top  of  his  voice,  and  is  ready  to  throw 

i6o 


all  his  possessions  after  his  shouts.  So  the 
hero  is  satisfied.  The  greater  the  shout, 
the  deeper  his  belief  in  himself  and  his 
mission.  What  will  a  hero  not  believe ! 
For  he  forgets  so  soon  the  elements  of  which 
his  fame  and  riches  are  made.  Heroes 
usually  are  convinced  that  they  set  out  on 
their  noble  career,  not  to  beg  shouts  from 
beggars,  but  to  heap  blessings  on  mankind. 
If  they  could  only  call  to  mind  with  what 
beating  hearts  they  awaited  their  first 
applause,  their  first  alms,  how  timidly  they 
curried  favour  with  ragged  beggars,  perhaps 
they  would  speak  less  assuredly  of  their 
own  merits.  But  our  memory  is  fully 
acquainted  with  Herbert  Spencer  and  his 
law  of  adaptability,  and  thus  many  a  worthy 
man  goes  gaily  on  in  full  belief  in  his  own 
stupendous  virtue. 

II 
In  defence  of  righteousness. — Inexperienced 
and  ingenuous  people  see  in  righteousness 
merely  a  burden  which  lofty  people  have 
assumed  out  of  respect  for  law  or  for  some 
other  high  and  inexplicable  reason.  But 
a  righteous  man  has  not  only  duties  but 
rights.  True,  sometimes,  when  the  law  is 
against  him,  he  has  to  compromise.  Yet 
how  rarely  does  the  law  desert  him  !     No 

L  l6l 


cruelty  matters  in  him,  so  long  as  he  does 
not  infringe  the  statutes.  Nay,  he  will 
ascribe  his  cruelty  as  a  merit  to  himself, 
since  he  acts  out  of  no  personal  considera- 
tions, but  in  the  name  of  sacred  justice. 
No  matter  what  he  may  do,  once  he  is 
sanctioned  he  sees  in  his  actions  only  merit, 
merit,  merit.  Modesty  forbids  him  to  say 
too  much — but  if  he  were  to  let  go,  what  a 
luxurious  panegyric  he  might  deliver  to 
himself  !  Remembering  his  works,  he  praises 
himself  at  all  times ;  not  aloud,  but  in- 
wardly. The  nature  of  virtue  demands  it : 
man  must  rejoice  in  his  morality  and  ever 
keep  it  in  mind.  And  after  that,  people 
declare  that  it  is  hard  to  be  righteous. 
Whatever  the  other  virtues  may  be,  certainly 
righteousness  has  its  selfish  side.  As  a  rule 
it  is  decidedly  worth  while  to  make  con- 
siderable sacrifices  in  order  later  on  to  enjoy 
in  calm  confidence  all  that  surety  and  those 
rights  bestowed  on  a  man  by  morality  and 
public  approval.  Look  at  a  German  who 
has  paid  his  contribution  to  a  society  for 
the  assistance  of  the  indigent.  Not  one 
stray  farthing  will  he  give,  not  to  a  poor 
wretch  who  is  starving  before  his  eyes.  And 
in  this  he  feels  right.  This  is  righteousness 
out  and  out :  pay  your  tax  and  enjoy  the 
162 


privileges  of  a  high-principled  man.  So 
righteousness  is  much  in  vogue  with  cul- 
tured, commercial  nations.  Russians  have 
not  quite  got  there.  They  are  afraid  of 
the  exactions  of  righteousness,  not  guessing 
the  enormous  advantages  derived.  A  Rus- 
sian has  a  permanent  relationship  with 
his  conscience,  which  costs  him  far  more 
than  the  most  moral  German,  or  even 
Englishman,  has  to  pay  for  his  righteous- 
ness. 

12 

The  best  way  of  getting  rid  of  tedious, 
played-out  truths  is  to  stop  paying  them  the 
tribute  of  respect  and  to  treat  them  with  a 
touch  of  easy  familiarity  and  derision.  To 
put  into  brackets,  as  Dostoevsky  did,  such 
words  as  good,  self-sacrifice,  progress,  and 
so  on,  will  alone  achieve  you  much  more 
than  many  brilliant  arguments  would  do. 
Whilst  you  still  contest  a  certain  truth,  you 
still  believe  in  it,  and  this  even  the  least 
penetrating  individual  will  perceive.  But 
if  you  favour  it  with  no  serious  attention, 
and  only  throw  out  a  scornful  remark  now 
and  then,  the  result  is  different.  It  is 
evident  you  have  ceased  to  be  afraid  of  the 
old  truth,  you  no  longer  respect  it.  And 
this  sets  people  thinking. 

163 


13  . 

Four    zvdlls. — x\rm-chair     philosophy     is 

being  condemned — rightly.  An  arm-chair 
thinker  is  busy  deciding  on  everything 
that  is  taking  place  in  the  world  :  the  state 
of  the  world  market,  the  existence  of  a  world- 
soul,  wireless  telegraphy  and  the  life  after 
death,  the  cave  dweller  and  the  perfecti- 
bility of  man,  and  so  on  and  so  on.  His 
chief  business  is  so  to  select  his  statements 
that  there  shall  be  no  internal  contradiction  ; 
and  this  will  give  an  appearance  of  truth. 
Such  work,  which  is  quite  amusing  and  even 
interesting,  leads  at  last  to  very  poor  results. 
Surely  verisimilitudes  of  truth  are  not  truth  : 
nor  have  necessarily  anything  in  common 
with  truth.  Again,  a  man  who  undertakes 
to  talk  of  everything  probably  knows  noth- 
ing. Thus  a  swan  can  fly,  and  walk,  and 
swim.  But  it  flies  indifferently,  walks  badly, 
and  swims  poorly.  An  arm-chair  philo- 
sopher, enclosed  by  four  walls,  sees  nothing 
but  those  four  walls,  and  yet  of  these  pre- 
cisely he  does  not  choose  to  speak.  If  by 
accident  he  suddenly  realised  them  and 
spoke  of  them  his  philosophy  might  acquire 
an  enormous  value.  This  may  happen 
when  a  study  is  converted  into  a  prison  : 
the  same  four  walls,  but  impossible  not  to 

164 


think  of  them  !  Whatever  the  •  prisoner 
turns  his  mind  to — Homer,  the  Greek- 
Persian  wars,  the  future  world-peace,  the 
bygone  geological  cataclysms — still  the  four 
walls  enclose  it  all.  The  calm  of  the  study 
supplanted  by  the  pathos  of  imprisonment. 
The  prisoner  has  no  more  contact  with  the 
world,  and  no  less.  But  now  he  no  longer 
slumbers  and  has  grayish  dreams  called 
world-conceptions.  He  is  wide  awake  and 
strenuously  living.  His  philosophy  is  worth 
hearing.  But  man  is  not  distinguished  for 
his  powers  of  discrimination.  He  sees  soli- 
tude and  four  walls,  and  says  :  a  study. 
He  dreams  of  the  market-place,  where  there 
is  noise  and  jostling,  physical  bustle,  and 
decides  that  there  alone  life  is  to  be  met. 
He  is  wrong  as  usual.  In  the  market- 
place, among  the  crowd,  do  not  men  sleep 
their  deadest  sleep  ?  And  is  not  the  keenest 
spiritual  activity  taking  place  in  seclusion  ? 

H 
The  Spartans  made  their  helots  drunk  as 
an  example  and  warning  to  their  noble 
youths.  A  good  method,  no  doubt,  but 
what  are  we  of  the  twentieth  century  to  do  ? 
Whom  shall  we  make  drunk  f  We  have 
no  slaves,  so  we  have  instituted  a  higher 

165 


literature.  Novels  and  stories  describe 
drunken,  dissolute  men,  and  paint  them  in 
such  horrid  colours  that  every  reader  feels 
all  his  desire  for  vice  depart  from  him. 
Unfortunately  only  our  Russians  are  either 
too  conscientious  or  not  sufficiently  recti- 
linear in  their  minds.  Instead  of  showing 
the  drunken  helot  as  an  object  of  repugnance, 
as  the  Spartans  did,  they  try  to  describe 
vice  truthfully.  Realism  has  taken  hold. 
Indeed,  why  make  a  fuss  ?  What  does  it 
matter  if  the  writer's  description  is  a  little 
more  or  less  ugly  than  the  event  ?  Was 
justice  invented  that  everything,  even  evil, 
should  be  kept  intact  ?  Surely  evil  must 
be  simply  rooted  out,  banned,  placed  outside 
the  pale.  The  Spartans  did  not  stand  on 
ceremony  with  living  men,  and  yet  our 
novelists  are  afraid  of  being  unjust  to 
imaginary  drunken  helots.  And,  so  to 
speak,  out  of  humane  feeling  too.  .  .  .  How 
naive  one  must  be  to  accept  such  a  justifica- 
tion !  Yet  everybody  accepts  it.  Tolstoy 
alone,  towards  the  end,  guessed  that  humani- 
tarianism  is  only  a  pretext  in  this  case, 
and  that  we  Russians  have  described  vice 
not  only  for  the  purpose  of  scaring  our 
readers.  In  modern  masters  the  word  vice 
arouses  not  disgust,  but  insatiable  curiosity. 

i66 


Perhaps  the  wicked  thing  has  been  per- 
secuted in  vain,  like  so  many  other  good 
things.  Perhaps  it  should  have  been  studied, 
perhaps  it  held  mysteries.  .  .  .  On  the 
strength  of  this  "  perhaps "  morality  was 
gradually  abandoned,  and  Tolstoy  remained 
almost  alone  in  his  indignation.  Realism 
reigns,  and  a  drunken  helot  arouses  envy 
in  timid  readers  who  do  not  know  where  to 
put  their  trust,  whether  in  the  traditional 
rules  or  in  the  appeal  of  the  master.  A 
drunken  helot  an  ideal !  What  have  we 
come  to  ?  Were  it  not  better  to  have  stuck 
to  Lycurgus  ?  Have  we  not  paid  too  dearly 
for  our  progress  ? 

Many  people  think  we  have  paid  too 
dearly — not  to  mention  Tolstoy,  who 
is  now  no  longer  taken  quite  seriously, 
though  still  accounted  a  great  man.  Any 
mediocre  journalist  enjoys  greater  influence 
than  this  master-writer  of  the  Russian  land. 
It  is  inevitable.  Tolstoy  insists  on  think- 
ing about  things  which  are  nobody's  concern. 
He  has  long  since  abandoned  this  world— 
and  does  he  continue  to  exist  in  any  other  ? 
Difficult  question  !  "  Tolstoy  writes  books 
and  letters,  therefore  he  exists."  This 
inference,  once  so  convincing,  now  has 
hardly  any  effect  on  us  :   particularly  if  we 

167 


take  into  account  wKat  It  is  that  Tolstoy 
writes.     In   several   of   his   last   letters   he 
expresses   opinions   which   surely   have   no 
meaning  for  an  ordinary  man.     They  can  be 
summed  up  in  a  few  words.     Tolstoy  pro- 
fesses an  extreme  egoism,  sollipsism,  solus- 
ipse-ism.     That    is,    in   his    old    age,    after 
infinite  attempts  to  love  his  neighbour,  he 
comes  to  the  conclusion  that  not  only  is  it 
impossible   to    love    one's    neighbour,    but 
tha:  there  is  no  neighbour,  that  in  all  the 
world  Tolstoy  alone  exists,  that  there  is  even 
no   world,   but    only   Tolstoy :     a   view   so 
obviously    absurd,    that    it    is    not    worth 
refuting.     By    the   way,    there   is   also    no 
possibility  of  refuting  it,  unless  you  admit 
that    logical    inferences    are     non-binding. 
Sollipsism  dogged  Tolstoy  already  in  early 
youth,  but  at  that  time  he  did  not  know 
what  to  do  with  the  impertinent,  oppres- 
sive  idea,    so   he   ignored   it.     Finally,    he 
came  to  it.    The  older  a  man  becomes,  the 
more  he  learns  how  to  make  use  of  imper- 
tinent ideas.     Fairly  recently  Tolstoy  could 
pronounce  such  a  dictum  :    "  Christ  taught 
men  not  to  do  stupid  things."    Who  but 
Tolstoy   could  have  ventured  on   such   an 
interpretation  of  the  gospels  ?     Why  have 
we  all  held — all  of  us  but  Tolstoy — that  these 

i68 


words  contained  the  greatest  blasphemy  on 
Christ  and  His  teaching  ?  But  it  was 
Tolstoy's  last  desperate  attempt  to  save 
himself  from  sollipsism,  without  at  the  same 
time  flying  in  the  face  of  logic  :  even  Christ 
appeared  among  men  only  to  teach  them 
common  sense.  Whence  follows  that  "  mad  " 
thoughts  may  be  rejected  with  an  easy 
conscience,  and  the  advantage,  as  usual, 
remains  with  the  wholesome,  reasonable, 
sensible  thoughts.  There  is  room  for  good 
and  for  reason.  Good  is  self-understood; 
it  need  not  be  explained.  If  only  good 
existed  in  the  world,  there  would  exist  no 
questions,  neither  simple  nor  ultimate.  This 
is  why  youth  never  questions.  What  indeed 
should  it  question  :  the  song  of  the  night- 
ingale, the  morning  of  May,  happy  laughter, 
all  the  predicates  of  youth  ?  Do  these 
need  interpretation  ?  On  the  contrary,  any 
explanation  is  reduced  to  these  The  proper 
questions  arise  only  on  contact  with  evil.  A 
hawk  struck  a  nightingale,  flowers  withered, 
Boreas  froze  laughing  youth — and  in  terror 
our  questions  arose.  "  That  is  evil.  The 
ancients  were  right.  Not  in  vain  is  our 
earth  called  a  vale  of  tears  and  sorrow." 
And  once  questions  are  started,  it  is  im- 
possible and  unseemly  to  hurry  the  answers, 

169 


still  less  anticipate  the  questions.  Tlie 
nightingale  is  dead  and  will  sing  no  longer, 
the  listener  is  frozen  to  death  and  can  hear 
no  more  songs.  The  situation  is  so  palp- 
ably absurd  that  only  with  the  intention  of 
getting  rid  of  the  question  at  any  cost  will 
one  strive  for  a  sensible  answer.  The 
answer  must  be  absurd — if  you  don't  want 
it,  don't  question.  But  if  you  must  question, 
then  be  ready  beforehand  to  reconcile 
yourself  with  something  like  sollipsism  or 
modern  realism.  Thought  is  in  a  dilemma, 
and  dare  not  take  the  leap  to  get  out. 
We  laugh  at  philosophy,  and,  as  long 
as  possible,  avoid  evil.  But  nearly  all 
men  feel  the  intolerable  cramp  of  such  a 
situation,  and  each  at  his  risk  ventures  to 
swim  to  shore  on  some  more  or  less  witty 
theory.  A  few  courageous  ones  speak  the 
truth — but  they  are  neither  understood  nor 
respected.  When  a  man's  words  show  the 
depth  of  the  pain  through  which  he  has 
passed,  he  is  not,  indeed,  condemned,  but 
the  world  begins  to  talk  of  his  tragic  state 
of  soul,  and  to  take  on  a  mournful  look 
fitting  to  the  occasion.  Others  more  scrupu- 
lous feel  that  phrases  and  mournful  looks 
are  unfitting,  yet  they  cannot  dwell  at 
length  on  the  tragedies  of  outsiders,  so  they 

170 


take  on  an  exaggeratedly  stern  bearing,  as 
if  to  say,  "  We  feel  deeply,  but  we  do  not 
wish    to    show   our   feeling."    They    really 
feel   nothing,    only   want   to   make   others 
beHeve  how  sensitive  and  modest  they  are. 
At  times  this  leads  to  curious  results,  even 
in  writers  of  the  first  order  of  renown.    Thus 
Anatole  France,  the  inventor  of  that  most 
charming  smile  which   is  intended  to  con- 
vince men  that  he  feels  everything  and  under- 
stands everything,  but  does  not  cry  out, 
because  that  would  not  be  fitting,  in  one  of 
his  novels  takes  upon  himself  the  noble  role 
of  advocate  of  the  victims  of  a  crime,  against 
the  criminal.     '"'  Our  time,"    he  says,  "  out 
of  fity  to  the  criminal  forgets  the  sufferings 
of  his  victim."    This,  I  repeat,  is  one  of 
the     most    curious     misrepresentations     of 
modern  endeavour.     It  is  true  we  in  Russia 
talk  a  good  deal  about  compassion,  particu- 
larly to  criminals,  and  Anatole  France  is 
by  no  means  the  only  man  who  thinks  that 
our  distinguishing  characteristic  is  extreme 
sensitiveness  and    tender-heartedness.     But 
as  a  matter  of  fact  the  modern  man  who 
thinks  for  himself  is  not  drawn  to  the  crim- 
inal by  a  sense  of  compassion,  which  would 
incontestably  be  better  applied  to  the  victim, 
but  by  curiosity,  or  if  you  like,  inquisitive- 

171 


ness.  For  thousands  of  years  man  has 
sought  to  solve  the  great  mystery  of  Hfe 
through  a  God-conception — with  theodicy 
and  metaphysical  theories  as  a  result,  both 
of  which  deny  the  possibility  of  a  mystery. 
Theodicy  has  long  ago  wearied  us.  The 
mechanistic  theories,  which  contend  that 
there  is  nothing  special  in  life,  that  its  appear- 
ance and  disappearance  depend  on  the 
same  laws  as  those  of  the  conservation  of 
energy  and  the  indestructibility  of  matter, 
these  look  more  plausible  at  first  sight,  but 
people  do  not  take  to  them.  And  no 
theory  can  survive  men's  reluctance  to 
believe  in  it.  In  a  word,  good  has  not 
justified  the  expectations  placed  on  it. 
Reason  has  done  no  better.  So  overwrought 
mankind  has  turned  from  its  old  idols  and 
enthroned  madness  and  evil.  The  smiling 
Anatole  argues,  and  proves — proves  excel- 
lently. But  who  does  not  know  what  his 
proofs  amount  to  ? — and  who  wants  them  ? 
It  may  be  our  children  will  take  fright  at 
the  task  we  have  undertaken,  will  call  us 
*'  squandering  parents,"  and  will  set  them- 
selves again  to  heaping  up  treasures,  spiritual 
and  material.  Again  they  will  believe  in 
ideals,  progress,  and  such  like.  For  my 
own  part,  I  have  hardly  any  doubt  of  it. 

172 


Solllpsism  and  the  cult  of  groundlessness  are 
not  lastiru^:,  and,  most  of  all,  they  are  not 
to  be  handed  down.  The  final  triumph,  in 
life  as  in  old  comedies,  rests  with  goodness 
and  common  sense.  History  has  known 
many  epochs  like  ours,  and  gone  through 
with  them.  Degeneration  follows  on  the 
heels  of  immoderate  curiosity,  and  sweeps 
away  all  refined  and  exaggerately  well- 
informed  individuals.  Men  of  genius  have 
no  posterity — or  their  children  are  idiots. 
Not  for  nothing  is  nature  so  majestically 
serene :  she  has  hidden  her  secrets  well 
enough.  Which  is  not  surprising,  consid- 
ering how  unscrupulous  she  is.  No  despot, 
not  the  greatest  villain  on  earth,  has  ever 
wielded  power  with  the  cruelty  and  heart- 
lessness  of  nature.  The  least  violation  of 
her  laws — and  the  severest  punishment 
follows.  Disease,  deformity,  madness,  death 
— what  has  not  our  common  mother  con- 
trived to  keep  us  in  subjection  ?  True, 
certain  optimists  think  that  nature  does  not 
punish  us,  but  educates  us.  So  Tolstoy 
sees  it.  "  Death  and  sufferings,  like  ani- 
mated scarecrows,  boo  at  man  and  drive 
him  into  the  one  way  of  life  open  to  him  : 
for  life  is  subject  to  its  own  law  of  reason." 
Not  a  bad  method  of  upbringing.     Exactly 


like  using  wolves  and  bears.  Unfortunate 
man,  bolting  from  one  booing  monster, 
is  not  always  able  in  time  to  dodge  into 
the  one  correct  way,  and  dashes  straight 
into  the  maw  of  another  beast  of  prey. 
Then  what  ?  And  this  often  happens.  With- 
out disparagement  of  the  optimists,  we  may 
say  that  sooner  or  later  it  happens  to  every 
man.  After  which  no  more  running.  You 
won't  tear  yourself  out  of  the  claws  of 
madness  or  disease.  Only  one  thing  is 
left :  in  spite  of  traditions,  theodicy, 
wiseacres,  and  most  of  all  in  spite  of  oneself, 
to  go  on  praising  mother  nature  and  her 
great  goodness.  Let  future  generations  re- 
ject us,  let  history  stigmatise  our  names, 
as  the  names  of  traitors  to  the  human  cause 
— still  we  will  compose  hymns  to  deformity, 
destruction,  madness,  chaos,  darkness.  And 
after  that — let  the  grass  grow. 


IS 

Astrology   and  alchemy  lived  their   day 

and  died  a  natural  death.  But  they  left  a 
posterity — chemistry  inventing  dyes,  and 
astronomy  accumulating  formulae.  So  it  is. 
Geniuses  beget  idiots  :  especially  when  the 
mothers  are  very  virtuous,  as  in  this  case, 

174 


when  their  virtue  is  extraordinary.  For  the 
mothers  are  public  utility  and  morality. 
The  alchemists  wasted  their  time  seeking 
the  philosopher's  stone ;  the  astrologers, 
swindled  people  telling  fortunes  by  the 
stars.  Wedded  to  utility  these  two  fathers 
have  begotten  the  chemists  and  astronomers. 
.  .  .  Nobody  will  dispute  the  genealogy. 
Perhaps  even  none  will  dispute  that,'  from 
idiotic  children  one  may,  with  a  measure  of 
probability,  infer  genius  in  the  parents. 
There  are  certain  indications  that  this  is 
so — though  of  course  one  may  not  go  beyond 
supposition.  But  supposition  is  enough. 
There  are  more  arguments  in  store.  For 
instance — our  day  is  so  convinced  of  the 
absolute  nonsense  and  uselessness  of  alchemy 
and  astrology  that  no  one  dreams  of 
verifying  the  conviction.  We  know  there 
were  many  charlatans  and  liars  amongst 
alchemists  and  astrologers.  But  what  does 
this  prove  ?  In  every  department  there 
are  the  same  mediocre  creatures  who  specu- 
late on  human  credulity.  However  positive 
our  science  of  medicine  is,  there  are  many 
fraudulent  doctors  who  rob  their  patients. 
The  alchemists  and  astrologers  were,  in  all 
probability,  the  most  remarkable  men  of 
their  time.     I  will  go  further ;    in  spite  of 


dye-stuffs  and  formulae,  even  in  our  nine- 
teenth century,  which  was  so  famous  for 
its  inventions  and  discoveries,  the  most 
eminent,  talented  men  still  sought  the 
philosopher's  stone  and  forecast  the  destinies 
of  man.  And  those  among  them  who  were 
possessed  of  a  poetic  gift  won  universal 
attention.  In  the  old  days,  consensu 
sapientiu7n,  a  poet  was  allowed  all  kinds  of 
liberties  :  he  might  speak  of  fate,  miracles, 
spirits,  the  life  beyond — indeed  of  anything, 
provided  he  was  interesting.  That  was 
enough.  The  nineteenth  century  paid  its 
tribute  to  restlessness.  Never  were  there 
so  many  disturbing,  throbbing  writers  as 
during  the  epoch  of  telephones  and  tele- 
graphs. It  was  held  indecent  to  speak 
in  plain  language  of  the  vexed  and  troubled 
aspirations  of  the  human  spirit.  Those 
guilty  of  the  indecency  were  even  dosed  with 
bromides  and  treated  with  shower-baths  and 
concentrated  foods.  But  all  this  is  external, 
it  belongs  to  a  history  of  "  fashions  "  and 
cannot  interest  us  here.  The  point  is  that 
alchemy  and  astrology  did  not  die,  they  only 
shammed  death  and  left  the  stage  for  a  time. 
Now,  apparently,  they  are  tired  of  seclusion 
and  are  coming  forward  again,  having 
pushed  their  unsuccessful  children  into  the 

176 


background.     Well,  so  be  it.     A  la   honne 
heure  !  .  .  . 

i6 
Man  comes  to  the  pass  where  all  experi- 
ence seems  exhausted.  Wherever  he  go, 
whatever  he  see,  all  is  old  and  wearyingly 
familiar.  Most  people  explain  this  by  say- 
ing that  they  really  knov/  everything,  and 
that  from  what  they  have  experienced 
they  can  infer  all  experience.  This  phase 
of  the  exhaustion  of  life  usually  comes 
to  a  man  between  thirty-five  and  forty 
— the  best  period,  according  to  Karamzin. 
Not  seeing  anything  new,  the  individual 
assumes  he  is  completely  matured  and 
has  the  right  to  judge  of  everything. 
Knowing  what  has  been  he  can  forecast 
w^hat  will  be.  But  Karamzin  was  mistaken 
about  the  best  period,  and  the  "  mature  " 
people  are  mistaken  about  the  "  nothing 
new  can  happen."  The  fact  of  spiritual 
stagnation  should  not  be  made  the  ground 
for  judging  all  life's  possibilities  from  known 
possibilities.  On  the  contrary,  such  stag- 
nation should  prove  that  however  rich  and 
multifarious  the  past  may  have  been,  it  has 
not  exhausted  a  tittle  of  the  whole  possi- 
bilities. From  that  which  has  been  it  is 
impossible  to  infer  what  will  be.     Moreover, 

.M  177 


it  is  unnecessary — except,  perhaps,  to  give 
us  a  sense  of  our  full  maturity  and  let  us 
enjoy  all  the  charms  of  the  best  period  of 
life,  so  eloquently  described  by  Karamzin. 
The  temptation  is  not  overwhelming.  So 
that,  if  man  is  under  the  necessity  of  endur- 
ing a  period  of  arrest  and  stagnation,  and 
until  such  time  as  life  re-starts  is  doomed  to 
meditation,  would  it  not  be  better  to  use  this 
meditating  interregnum  for  a  directly  oppo- 
site purpose  from  the  one  indicated  :  that 
is  to  say,  for  the  purpose  of  finding  in  our 
past  signs  which  tell  us  that  the  future  has 
every  right  to  be  anything  whatsoever, 
like  or  utterly  unlike  the  past.  Such  signs, 
given  a  good  will  to  find  them,  may  be  seen 
in  plenty.  At  times  one  comes  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  natural  connection  of 
phenomena,  as  hitherto  observed,  is  not  at 
all  inevitable  for  the  future,  and  that 
miracles  which  so  far  have  seemed  impossible, 
may  come  to  seem  possible,  even  natural, 
far  more  natural  than  that  loathsome  law 
of  sequence,  the  law  of  the  regularity  of 
phenomena.  We  are  bored  stiff  with  regu- 
larity and  sequence — confess  it,  you  also, 
you  men  of  science.  At  the  mere  thought 
that,  however  we  may  think,  we  can  get 
no    further    than    the    acknowledgment    of 

178 


the    old    regularity,    an    invincible    disgust 
to  any  kind  of  mental  work  overcomes  us. 
To    discover    another   law — still    another — 
when  already  we  have  far  more  than  we 
can  do  with  !     Surely  if  there  is  any  will- 
to-think  left  in  us,  it  is  established  in  the 
supposition  that  the  mind  cannot  and  must 
not    have    any    bounds,    any    limits ;     and 
that   the    theory    of    knowledge,   which   is 
based  on  the  history  of  knowledge  and  on  a 
few  very  doubtful  assumptions,  is  only  a 
piece   of   property   belonging   to   a   certain 
caste,  and  has  nothing  to  do  with  us  others 
— und  die  Natur  zuletzt   sich  doch  ergrunde. 
What  a  mad  impatience  seizes  us  at  times 
when  w^e  realise  that  we  shall  never  fathom 
the  great    mystery !      Every    individual  in 
the  world  must  have  felt  at  one  time  the 
mad  desire  to  unriddle  the  universe.     Even 
the  stodgy  philosophers  who  invented  the 
theory  of  knowledge  have  at  times  made 
surreptitious  sorties,  hoping  to  open  a  path 
to  the  unknown,  in  spite  of  their  own  fat, 
senseless  books  that  demonstrate  the  advan- 
tages of  scientific   knowledge.     Man  either 
lives  in  continuous  experience,  or  he  frees 
himself  from  conclusions  imposed  by  limited 
experience.     All  the  rest  is  the  devil.     From 
the    devil    come    the    blandishments    with 

179 


which  Karamzin  charmed  himself  and  his 
readers.  ...  Or  is  it  the  contrary  ?  Who 
will  answer  !  Once  again,  as  usual,  at  the 
end  of  a  pathetic  speech  one  is  left  with  a 
conjecture.  Let  every  man  please  himself. 
But  what  about  those  who  would  like  to 
live  according  to  Karamzin,  but  cannot  ? 
I  cannot  speak  for  them.  Schiller  recom- 
mended hope.  Will  it  do  ?  To  be  frank, 
hardly.  He  who  has  once  lost  his  peace  of 
mind  will  never  find  it  again. 

Ever  since  Kant  succeeded  in  convincing 
the  learned  that  the  world  of  phenomena  is 
quite  other  than  the  world  of  true  reality, 
and  that  even  our  own  existence  is  not  our 
real  existence,  but  only  the  visible  mani- 
festation of  a  mysterious,  unknown  sub- 
stance (substantia) — philosophy  has  been 
stuck  in  a  new  rut,  and  cannot  move  a  single 
millimetre  out  of  the  track  laid  out  by  the 
great  Konigsbergian.  Backward  or  forward 
it  can  go,  but  necessarily  in  the  Kantian 
rut.  For  how  can  you  get  out  of  the 
counterposing  of  the  phenomenon  against 
the  thing-in-itself  ?  This  proposition,  this 
counterposing  seems  inalterable,  so  there 
is  nothing  left  but  to  stick  your  head  in  the 

180 


heavy  draught-collar  of  the  theory  of  know- 
ledge. Which  most  philosophers  do,  even 
with  a  glad  smile,  which  inevitably  rouses 
a  suspicion  that  they  have  got  what  they 
wanted,  and  their  "  metaphysical  need " 
was  nothing  more  than  a  need  for  a  harness. 
Otherwise  they  would  have  kicked  at  the 
sight  of  the  collar.  Surely  the  contra- 
position between  the  world  of  phenomena 
and  the  thing-in-itself  is  an  invention  of 
the  reasoning  mind,  as  is  the  theory  of 
knowledge  deduced  from  this  contraposing. 
Therefore  the  freedom-loving  spirit  could 
reject  it  in  the  very  beginning — and  basta  I 
With  the  devil  one  must  be  very  cautious. 
We  know  quite  well  that  if  he  only  gets  hold 
of  the  tip  of  your  ear  he  will  carry  off  your 
whole  body.  So  it  is  with  Reason.  Grant 
it  one  single  assumption,  admit  but  one 
proposition — and  finita  la  commedia.  You 
are  in  the  toils.  Metaphysics  cannot  exist 
side-by-side  with  reason.  Everything  meta- 
physical is  absurd,  everything  reasonable 
is — positive.  So  we  come  upon  a  dilemma. 
The  fundamental  predicate  of  metaphysics 
is  absurdity  :  and  yet  surely  many  positive 
assertions  can- lay  legitimate  claim  to  that 
self-same,  highly-respectable  predicate. 
What    then  ?     Is    there    means    of    distin- 

i8i 


guishing  a  metaphysical  absurdity  from  a 
perfectly  ordinary  one  ?  May  one  have 
recourse  to  criteria  ?  Will  not  the  very 
criterion  prove  a  pitfall  wherein  cunning 
reason  will  catch  the  poor  man  who  was 
rushing  out  to  freedom  ?  There  can  be  no 
two  answers  to  this  question.  All  services 
rendered  by  reason  must  be  paid  for  sooner 
or  later  at  the  exorbitant  price  of  self- 
renunciation.  Whether  you  accept  the  assist- 
ance in  the  noble  form  of  the  theory  of 
knowledge,  or  merely  as  a  humble  criterion, 
at  last  you  will  be  driven  forth  into  the 
streets  of  positivism.  This  happens  all  the 
time  to  young,  inexperienced  minds.  They 
break  the  bridle  and  dash  forward  into  space, 
to  find  themselves  rushing  into  the  same  old 
Rome,  whither,  as  we  know,  all  roads  lead : 
or,  to  use  more  lofty  language,  rushing  into 
the  stable  whither  also  all  roads  lead.  The 
only  way  to  guard  against  positivism — 
granting,  of  course,  that  positivism  no 
longer  attracts  your  sympathies — is  to  cease 
to  fear  any  absurdities,  whether  rational 
or  metaphysical,  and  systematically  to  reject 
all  the  services  of  reason.  Such  behaviour 
has  been  known  in  philosophy ;  and  I  make 
bold  to  recommend  it.  Credo  quia  absurduvi 
comes  from  the  Middle  Ages.  Modern 
182 


instances  are  Nietzsche  and  Schopenhauer. 
Both  present  noble  examples  of  indifference 
to  logic  and  common-sense :  particularly 
Schopenhauer,  who,  a  Kantian,  even  in 
the  name  of  Kant  made  such  daring  sallies 
against  reason,  driving  her  into  confusion 
and  shame.  That  astounding  Kantian  even 
went  so  far,  in  the  master's  name  still,  as 
to  attempt  the  overthrow  of  the  space  and 
time  notions.  He  admitted  clairvoyance — 
and  to  this  day  the  learned  are  bothered 
whether  to  class  that  admission  among  the 
metaphysical  or  the  ordinary  absurdities. 
Really,  I  can't  advise  them.  A  very  clever 
man  insists  on  an  enormous  absurdity,  so  I 
am  satisfied.  Schopenhauer's  whole  cam- 
.paign  against  intellect  is  very  comforting. 
It  is  evident  that,  though  he  set  out  from 
the  Kantian  stable,  he  soon  got  sick  of 
hauling  along  down  the  cart-ruts,  and  having 
broken  the  shafts,  he  trotted  jauntily  into 
a  jungle  of  irreconcilable  contradictions, 
without  reflecting  in  the  least  where  he  was 
making  for.  The  primate  of  will  over 
reason;  and  music  as  the  expression  of  our 
deepest  essence ;  are  not  these  assertions 
sufficient  to  show  us  how  dexterously  he 
wriggled  out  from  the  harness  of  synthetic 
judgments  a  •priori  which  Kant  had  placed 

183 


upon  every  thinker.  There  is  indeed  much 
more  music  than  logic  in  the  philosophy 
of  Schopenhauer.  Not  for  nothing  is  he 
excluded  from  the  universities.  But  of 
course  one  may  speak  of  him  in  the  open ; 
not  of  his  ideas,  naturally,  but  of  his 
music.  The  European  market  is  glutted 
with  ideas.  How  neat  and  nicely-finished 
and  logically  well-turned-out  those  ideas 
are.  Schopenhauer  had  no  such  goods. 
But  what  lively  and  splendid  contradictions 
he  boldly  spreads  on  his  stall,  often  even 
without  suspicion  that  he  ought  to  hide 
them  from  the  police.  Schopenhauer  cries 
and  laughs  and  gets  furious  or  glad,  without 
ever  realising  that  this  is  forbidden  to  a 
philosopher.  "  Do  not  speak,  but  sing," 
said  Zarathustra,  and  Schopenhauer  really 
fulfilled  the  command  in  great  measure. 
Philosophy  may  be  music — though  it  doesn't 
follow  that  music  may  be  called  philosophy. 
When  a  man  has  done  his  work,  and  gives 
himself  up  to  looking  and  listening  and 
pleasantly  accepting  everything,  hiding  noth- 
ing from  himself,  then  he  begins  to  "  philo- 
sophise." What  good  are  abstract  formulae 
to  him  ?  Why  should  he  ask  himself, 
before  he  begins  to  think  :  "  What  can  I 
think    about,     what     are     the    limits    of 

184 


thought  ?  "  He  will  think,  and  those  who 
like  can  do  the  summing  up  and  the  build- 
ing of  theories  of  knowledge.  What  is  the 
earthly  use  of  talking  about  beauty  ? 
Beautiful  things  must  be  created.  Not 
one  single  aesthetic  theory  has  so  far  been 
able  to  guess  what  direction  the  artists' 
mind  will  next  take,  or  what  are  the  limits 
to  his  creative  activity.  The  same  with 
the  theory  of  knowledge.  It  may  arrest 
the  work  of  a  man  of  learning,  if  he  be  him- 
self afraid  that  he  is  going  too  far,  but  it  is 
powerless  to  pre-determine  human  thought. 
Even  Kant's  counterposing  of  things-in- 
themselves  to  the  world  of  phenomena 
cannot  finally  clip  the  wings  of  human 
curiosity.  There  will  come  a  time  when  this 
unshakeable  foundation  of  positivism  will 
be  shaken.  All  gnosiological  disputes  as  to 
what  thought  can  or  cannot  achieve  will 
seem  to  our  posterity  just  as  amusing  as  the 
disputes  of  the  schoolmen  seem  to  us. 
"  Why  did  they  argue  about  the  nature  of 
truth,  when  they  might  have  gone  out  and 
looked  for  truth  itself  ?  "  the  future  histor- 
ians will  ask.  Let  us  have  an  answer  ready 
for  them.  Our  contemporaries  do  not  want 
to  go  out  and  seek,  so  they  make  a  great 
deal  of  talk  about  a  theory  of  knowledge. 

i8s 


i8 

"  Trust  not  thyself,  young  dreamer." — 
However  sincerely  you  may  long  for  truth, 
whatever  sufferings  and  horrors  you  may 
have  surpassed,  do  not  believe  your  own 
self,  young  dreamer.  What  you  are  looking 
for,  you  won't  find.  At  the  utmost,  if 
you  have  a  gift  for  writing  you  will  bring 
out  a  nice  original  book.  Even — do  not  be 
offended — you  may  be  satisfied  with  such  a 
result.  In  Nietzsche's  letters  relating  to 
the  year  1888,  the  year  when  Brandes  dis- 
covered him,  you  will  find  a  sad  confirma- 
tion of  the  above.  Had  not  Nietzsche 
struggled,  sought,  suffered  ? — and  behold, 
towards  the  end  of  his  life,  when  it  would 
have  seemed  that  all  mundane  rewards 
had  become  trivial  to  him,  he  threw  himself 
with  rapture  on  the  tidings  of  first  fame,  and 
rushed  to  share  his  joy  with  all  his  friends, 
far  and  near.  He  does  not  tire  of  telling 
in  dozens  of  letters  and  in  varying  forms  the 
story  of  how  Brandes  first  began  his  lectures 
on  him,  Nietzsche,  how  the  audience  con- 
sisted of  three  hundred  people,  and  he  even 
quotes  Brandes'  placard  announcement  in 
the  original  Danish.  Fame  just  threw  him 
a  smile,  and  forgotten  are  all  the  horrible 
experiences  of  former  days.     The  loneliness, 

186 


the  desertedness,  the  cave  in  the  mountain, 
the  man  into  whose  mouth  the  serpent 
dimbed — all  forgotten,  every  thought  turned 
to  the  ordinary,  easily-comprehensible  good. 
Such  is  man. 

Mit  gier^ger  Hand  nach  Schdtzen  grabt 
Und  froh  ist  zvenn  er  Regenzvurmer  findet. 

When  a  man  is  young  he  writes  because 
it  seems  to  him  he  has  discovered  a  new 
almighty  truth  which  he  must  make  haste 
to  impart  to  forlorn  mankind.  Later,  be- 
coming more  modest,  he  begins  to  doubt 
his  truths  :  and  then  he  writes  to  convince 
himself.  A  few  more  years  go  by,  and  he 
knows  he  was  mistaken  all  round,  so  there 
is  no  need  to  convince  himself.  Neverthe- 
less he  continues  to  write,  because  he  is  not 
fit  for  any  other  work,  and  to  be  accounted 
a  "  superfluous  "  man  is  so  horrible. 

20 

A  very  original  man  is  often  a  banal  writer, 
and  vice  versa.  We  tend  so  often  to  write 
not  about  what  is  going  on  in  us,  but  of 
our  pia  desideria.  Thus  restless,  sleepless 
men  sing  the  glory  of  sleep  and  rest,  which 

187 


have  long  been  sung  to  death.  And  those 
who  sleep  ten  hours  on  end  and  are  always 
up  to  the  mark  must  perforce  dream  about 
adventures  and  storms  and  dangers,  and 
even  extol  everything  problematical. 

21 

When  one  reads  the  books  of  long-dead 
men,  a  strange  sensation  comes  over  one. 
These  men  who  lived  two  hundred,  three 
hundred,  three  thousand  years  ago  are  so 
far  off  now  from  this  writing  which  they 
have  left  on  earth.  Yet  we  look  for  eternal 
truths  in  their  works. 

22 

The  truth  which  I  have  the  right  to 
announce  so  solemnly  to-day,  even  to  the 
first  among  men,  will  probably  be  a  stale  old 
lie  on  my  lips  to-morrow.  So  I  will  deprive 
myself  of  the  right  of  calling  such  a  truth 
my  own.  Probably  I  shall  deprive  no 
one  but  myself  :  others  will  go  on  loving 
and  praising  the  self-same  truth,  living 
with  it. 

23 

A  writer  who  cannot  lie  with  inspiration — 
and  that  is  a  great  art,  which  few  may 
accomplish — loves    to   make   an   exhibition 

188 


of  honesty  and  frankness.     Nothing  else  is 
left  him  to  do. 

24 
7 he  source  of  originality. — A  man  who 
has  lost  all  hope  of  rooting  out  of  himself  a 
certain  radical  defect  of  character,  or  even 
of  hiding  the  flaw  from  others,  turns  round 
and  tries  to  find  in  his  defect  a  certain  merit. 
If  he  succeeds  in  convincing  his  acquaint- 
ances, he  achieves  a  double  gain :  first, 
he  quiets  his  conscience,  and  then  he  acquires 
a  reputation  for  being  original. 

.25 

Men  begin  to  strive  towards  great  ends 
when  they  feel  they  cannot  cope  with  the 
little  tasks  of  life.  They  often  have  their 
measure  of  success. 

26 

A  belch  interrupts  the  loftiest  meditation. 
You  may  draw  a  conclusion  if  you  like  : 
if  you  don't  like,  you  needn't. 

27  . 
A   woman   of   conviction. — We   forgive   a 

man  his  "  convictions,"  however  unwillingly. 

It   goes   without    saying   that    we   balk   at 

any    individual   who    believes    in   his    own 

189 


infallibility,  but  one  must  reconcile  oneself 
with  necessity.  It  is  ugly  and  preposterous 
to  have  corns  on  one's  hands,  but  still, 
they  can't  be  avoided  in  this  unparadisal  ' 
earth  of  sweat  and  labour.  But  why  see 
an  ideal  in  callosities  ?  In  practical  life, 
particularly  in  the  social  political  life  to 
which  we  are  doomed,  convictions  are  a 
necessity.  Unity  is  strength,  and  unity 
is  possible  only  among  people  who  think 
alike.  Again,  a  deep  conviction  is  in  itself 
a  strong  force,  far  more  powerful  than  the 
most  logical  argumentation.  Sometimes  one 
has  only  to  pronounce  in  a  full,  round, 
vibrating  chest  voice,  such  as  is  peculiar  to 
people  of  conviction,  some  trifling  sentence, 
and  an  audience  hitherto  unconvinced  is 
carried  away.  Truth  is  often  dumb, 
particularly  a  new  truth,  which  is  most 
shy  of  people,  and  which  has  a  feeble, 
hoarse  voice.  But  in  certain  situations 
that  which  will  influence  the  crowd  is 
more  important  than  that  which  is  genuine 
truth.  Convictions  are  necessary  to  a  public 
man  :  but  he  who  is  too  clever  to  believe 
in  himself  entirely,  and  is  not  enough  of 
an  actor  to  look  as  if  he  believed,  he  had 
best  give  up  public  work  altogether.  At 
the  same  time  he  will  realise  that  lack  of 

190 


convictions  is  not  profitable,  and  will  look 
with  more  indulgence  on  such  as  are  bound 
to  keep  themselves  well  supplied.  Yet 
all  the  more  will  he  dislike  those  men  who 
without  any  necessity  disfigure  themselves 
with  the  coarse  tattoo  marks.  And 
particularly  he  will  object  to  such  women. 
What  can  be  more  intolerable  than  a  woman 
of  conviction.  She  lives  in  a  family,  without 
having  to  grind  for  her  daily  bread — why 
disfigure  herself  ?  Why  wilfully  rub  her 
hands  into  corns,  when  she  might  keep 
them  clean  and  pretty  !  Women,  moreover, 
usually  pick  up  their  convictions  ready- 
made  from  the  man  who  interests  them 
most  at  the  moment.  And  never  do  they 
do  this  so  vigorously  as  when  the  man 
himself  seems  incapable  of  paving  the  way 
to  his  ideas  !  They  are  full  of  feeling  for 
him;  they  rush  to  the  last  extremities  of 
resource.  Will  not  their  feeble  little  fists 
help  him  ?  It  may  be  touching,  but  in  the 
end  it  is  intolerable.  So  it  is  much  pleasanter 
to  meet  a  woman  who  believes  in  her 
husband  and  does  not  consider  it  necessary 
to  help  him.  She  can  then  dispense  with 
convictions. 


191 


28 

Emancipation  of  women. — The  one  and 
only  way  of  mastering  an  enemy  is  to  learn 
the  use  of  his  weapons.  Starting  from  this, 
modern  woman,  weary  of  being  the  slave 
of  man,  tries  to  learn  all  his  tricks.  Hard 
is  slavery,  wonderful  is  freedom  !  Slavery 
at  last  is  so  unendurable  that  a  human  being 
will  sacrifice  everything  for  freedom.  Of 
what  use  are  his  virtues  to  a  prisoner 
languishing  in  prison  ?  He  has  one  aim,  one 
object — to  get  out  of  prison,  and  he  values 
only  such  qualities  in  himself  as  will  assist 
his  escape.  If  it  is  necessary  to  break  an 
iron  grating  by  physical  force,  then  strong 
muscles  will  seem  to  the  prisoner  the  most 
desirable  of  all  things.  If  cunning  will 
help  him,  cunning  is  the  finest  thing  on 
earth.  Something  the  same  happens  with 
woman.  She  became  convinced  that  man 
owed  his  priority  chiefly  to  education  and 
a  trained  mind,  so  she  threw  herself  on 
books  and  universities.  Learning  that 
promises  freedom  is  light,  everything  else 
darkness.  Of  course,  it  is  a  delusion,  but 
you  could  never  convince  her  of  it,  for  that 
Vv'ould  mean  the  collapse  of  her  best  hopes 
of  freedom.  So  that  in  the  end  woman  will 
be  as  v/ell-informed  as. man,  she  will  furnish 

192 


herself  with  broad  views  and  unshakeable 
convictions,  with  a  philosophy  also — and 
in  the  end  she  may  even  learn  to  think 
logically.  Then,  probably,  the  many  mis- 
understandings between  the  sexes  will  cease. 
But  heavens,  how  tedious  it  will  be !  Men 
will  argue,  women  will  argue,  children  will 
probably  be  born  fully  instructed,  under- 
standing everything.  With  what  pain  will 
the  men  of  the  future  view  our  women, 
capricious,  frivolous,  uninformed  creatures, 
understanding  nothing  and  desiring  to  under- 
stand nothing.  A  whole  half  of  the  human 
race  neither  would  nor  could  have  any 
understanding !  But  the  hope  lies  there. 
Maybe  we  can  do  without  understanding. 
Perhaps  a  logical  mind  is  not  an  attribute, 
but  a  curse.  In  the  struggle  for  existence, 
however,  and  the  survival  of  the  fittest, 
not  a  few  of  the  best  human  qualities  have 
perished.  Obviously  woman's  illogicality 
is  also  destined  to  disappear.  It  is  a  thou- 
sand pities. 

All  kinds  of  literature  are  good,  except 
the  tedious,  said  Voltaire.  We  may  en- 
large the  idea.  All  men  and  all  activities 
are  good,  except  the  tedious.  Whatever 
your   failings   and   your   vices,   if  you   are 

N  193 


only  amusing  or  interesting  all  is  forgiven 
you.  Accordingly,  frankness  and  natural- 
ness are  quite  rightly  considered  doubtful 
virtues.  If  people  say  that  frankness  and 
naturalness  are  virtues,  always  take  it 
cum  grajto  salts.  Sometimes  it  is  per- 
missible and  even  opportune  to  fire  off 
truth  of  all  sorts.  Sometimes  one  may 
stretch  oneself  like  a  log  across  the  road. 
But  God  forbid  that  such  sincere  practices 
should  be  raised  into  a  principle.  To  out 
with  the  truth  at  all  times,  always  to  reveal 
oneself  entirely,  besides  being  impossible 
to  accomplish,  never  having  been  accom- 
plished even  in  the  confessions  of  the  greatest 
men,  is  moreover  a  far  more  risky  business 
than  it  seems.  I  can  confidently  assert 
that  if  any  man  tried  to  tell  the  whole  truth 
about  himself,  not  metaphorically,  for  every 
metaphor  is  a  covering  ornament,  but  in 
plain  bare  words,  that  man  would  ruin 
himself  for  ever,  for  he  would  lose  all  interest 
in  the  eyes  of  his  neighbours,  and  even 
in  his  own  eyes.  Each  of  us  bears  in  his 
soul  a  heavy  w^ound,  and  knows  it,  yet 
carries  himself,  must  carry  himself  as  if 
he  were  aware  of  nothing,  while  all  around 
keep  up  the  pretence.  Remember  Ler- 
montov : 

194 


Look  !  around,  you,  playfully 

The  crowd  moves  on  the  usual  road. 

Scarce  a  mark  of  trouble  on  the  festive  faces. 

Not  one  indecent  tear  I 

And  yet  is  barely  one  amongst  them 

But  is  crushed  by  heavy  torture. 

Or  has  gathered  the  wrinkles  of  young  age 

Save  from  crime  or  loss. 

These  words  are  horribly  true — and  the 
really  horrible  should  be  concealed,  it 
frightens  one  off.  I  admit,  Byron  and 
Lermontov  could  make  it  alluring.  But 
all  that  is  alluring  depends  on  vagueness, 
remoteness.  Any  monster  may  be  beautiful 
in  the  distance.  And  no  man  can  be  interest- 
ing unless  he  keep  a  certain  distance  between 
himself  and  people.  Women  do  not  under- 
stand this.  If  they  like  a  man,  they  try 
to  come  utterly  near  to  him,  and  are  sur- 
prised that  he  does  not  meet  their  frankness 
with  frankness,  and  admit  them  to  his  holy 
of  holies.  But  in  the  innermost  sanctuary 
the  only  beauty  is  inaccessibility.  As  a  rule 
it  is  not  a  sanctuary  but  a  lair  where  the 
wounded  beast  in  man  has  run  to  lick  his 
wounds.  And  shall  this  be  done  in  public  ? 
People  generally,  and  women  particularly, 
ought  to  be  given  something  positive.    In 

195 


books  one  may  still  sing  the  praise  of  wounds, 
hopelessness,  and  despair — whatever  you 
like,  for  books  are  still  literature,  a  conven- 
tionality. But  to  strip  one's  anguish  in  the 
open  market,  to  confess  an  incurable  disease 
to  others,  this  is  to  kill  one's  soul,  not  to 
relieve  it.  All,  even  the  best  men,  have 
some  aversion  for  you.  Perhaps  in  the 
interest  of  order  and  decorum  they  will 
grant  you  a  not-too-important  place  in 
their  philosophy  of  life.  For  in  a  philosophy 
of  life,  as  in  a  cemetery,  a  place  is  prepared 
for  each  and  all,  and  everyone  is  welcome. 
There  also  are  enclosures  where  rubbish 
is  dumped  to  rot.  But  for  those  who  have 
as  yet  no  desire  to  be  fitted  into  a  world- 
philosophy,  I  would  advise  them  to  keep 
their  tongue  between  their  teeth,  or  like 
Nietzsche  and  Dostoevsky,  take  to  literature. 
To  a  writer,  in  books  and  only  in  books, 
all  is  permitted  provided  he  has  talent. 
But  in  actual  living  even  a  writer  must  not 
let  loose  too  much,  lest  people  should  guess 
that  in  his  books  he  is  telling  the  truth. 

30 
Poushkin   asserts   that   the   poet   himself 
can  and  must  be  the  judge  of  his  own  work. 
"  Are  you  content,  exacting  artist  ?    Con- 

196 


tent,  then  let  the  mob  revile."  It  is  need- 
less to  argue  against  this,  for  how  could 
you  prove  that  the  supreme  verdict  belongs 
not  to  the  poet  himself,  but  to  public  opinion? 
Nor,  for  that  matter,  can  we  prove  Poushkin 
right.  We  must  agree  or  disagree,  as  we 
like.  But  we  cannot  reject  the  evidence. 
Whether  you  like  it  or  not,  Poushkin  was 
evidently  satisfied  with  his  own  work,  and 
did  not  need  his  reader's  sanction.  Happy 
man  !  And  it  seems  to  me  he  owed  his 
happiness  exclusively  to  his  inability  to 
pass  beyond  certain  limits.  I  doubt  if 
all  poets  would  agree  to  repeat  Poushkin's 
verse  quoted  above.  I  decidedly  refuse 
to  believe  that  Shakespeare,  for  instance, 
after  finisliing  Hamlet  or  King  Lear  could 
have  said  to  himself :  "  I,  who  judge  my 
work  more  strictly  than  any  other  can  judge, 
am  satisfied."  I  do  not  think  he  can  even 
have  thought  for  a  moment  of  the  merits 
of  his  works,  Hamlet  or  King  Lear.  To 
Shakespeare,  after  Hamlet,  the  word  "  satis- 
fied "  must  have  lost  all  its  meaning,  and 
if  he  used  it,  it  was  only  by  force  of  habit, 
as  we  sometimes  call  to  a  dead  person.  His 
own  works  must  have  seemed  to  him  imper- 
fect, mean,  pitiful,  Hke  the  sob  of  a  child 
or  the  moaning  of  a   sick  man.     He  gave 

197 


them  to  the  theatre,  and  most  probably  was 
surprised  that  they  had  any  success.  Per- 
haps he  was  glad  that  his  tears  were  of 
some  use,  if  only  for  amusing  and  instructing 
people.  And  probably  in  this  sense  the 
verdict  of  the  crowd  was  dearer  to  him  than 
his  own  verdict.  He  could  not  help  accusing 
his  own  offspring — thank  heaven,  other 
people  acquitted  it.  True,  they  acquitted 
it  because  they  did  not  understand,  or 
understood  imperfectly,  but  this  did  not 
matter.  "  Use  every  man  after  his  desert, 
and  who  should  'scape  a  whipping  ?  "  asked 
Hamlet.  Shakespeare  knew  that  a  strict 
tribunal  would  reject  his  works  :  for  they 
contain  so  many  terrible  questions,  and  not 
one  perfect  answer.  Could  anyone  be 
"  satisfied  "  at  that  rate  ?  Perhaps  with 
Comedy  of  Errors,  twelfth  Night,  or  even 
Richard  III. — but  after  Hamlet  a  man  may 
find  rest  only  in  his  grave.  To  speak  the 
whole  truth,  I  doubt  if  Poushkin  himself 
maintained  the  view  we  have  quoted  till 
the  end  of  his  days,  or  even  if  he  spoke  all 
he  felt  when  he  wrote  the  poem  in  1830. 
Possibly  he  felt  how  little  a  poet  can  be 
satisfied  with  his  work,  but  pride  prevented 
his  admitting  it,  and  he  tried  to  console 
himself  with  his  superiority  over  the  crowd. 
198 


Which  is  undeniably  a  right  thing  to  do. 
Insults — and  Poushkin  had  to  endure  many 
— are  answered  with  contempt ;  and  woe 
to  the  poor  wretch  who  feels  impelled  to 
justify  his  contempt  by  his  own  merits, 
according  to  the  stern  voice  of  conscience. 
Such  niceness  is  dangerous  and  unnecessary. 
If  a  man  would  preserve  his  strength  and 
his  confidence  he  must  give  up  magnanimity, 
he  must  learn  to  despise  people,  and  even  if 
he  cannot  despise  them  he  must  have  the 
air  of  one  who  would  not  give  a  pin's  head 
for  anybody.  He  must  appear  always  con- 
tent. .  .  .  Poushkin  was  a  clever  man  and 
a  deep  nature. 

Metaphysics  against  their  zvill. — It  often 
occurs  to  us  that  evil  is  not  altogether  so 
unnecessary,  after  all.  Diseases,  humilia- 
tions, miseries,  deformity,  failure,  and  all 
the  rest  of  those  plants  which  flourish  with 
such  truly  tropical  luxuriance  on  our  planet, 
are  probably  essential  to  man.  Poets  sing 
plentifully  of  sorrow. 

"  Nous  sommes  les  apprentis,  la  douleur 
est  7iotre  mattre,^^  said  de  Musset.  On  this 
subject  everybody  can  bring  forth  a  quota- 
tion, not  only  from  the  philosophers,  who 
are  a  cold,  heartless  tribe,  but  from  tender, 

199 


gentle,  or  sentimental  poets.  Doubtless 
one  knows  many  instances  where  suffering 
has  profited  a  man.  True  also,  one  knows 
many  cases  of  the  direct  opposite.  And  these 
are  all  cases  of  profound,  earnest,  outrageous, 
incredibly  outrageous  suffering.  Look  at 
Tchekhov's  men  and  women — plainly  drawn 
from  life,  or  at  any  rate,  exceedingly  life- 
like. Uncle  Vanya,  an  old  man  of  fifty, 
cries  beside  himself  all  over  the  stage, 
"  My  life  is  done  for,  my  life  is  done  for," 
and  senselessly  shoots  at  a  harmless  pro- 
fessor. The  hero  in  A  tedious  5/ory"Vas 
a  quiet,  happy  man  engaged  in  work  of 
real  importance,  when  suddenly  a  horrible 
disease  stole  upon  him,  not  killing  him,  but 
taking  him  between  its  loathsome  jaws. 
But  what  for  ?  Then  Tchekhov's  girls  and 
women  !  They  are  mostly  young,  innocent, 
fascinating.  And  always  there  lies  in  wait 
for  them  round  every  corner  a  meaningless, 
rude,  ugly  misery  which  murders  even  the 
most  modest  hopes.  They  sob  bitterly,  but 
fate  takes  no  notice.  How  explain  such 
horrors  ?  Tchekhov  is  silent.  He  does  not 
weep  himself — he  left  off  long  ago,  and 
besides  it  is  a  humiliating  thing  for  a  grown- 
up person  to  do.  Setting  one's  teeth,  it  is 
necessary  either  to  keep  silent  or — to  explain. 

200 


Well,  metaphysics  undertakes  the  explanation. 
Where  common  sense  stops,  metaphysics 
must  take  another  stride.  "  We  have  seen," 
it  says,  ''  many  instances  where  at  first 
glance  suffering  seemed  absurd  and  needless, 
but  where  later  on  a  profound  significance 
was  revealed.  Thus  it  may  be  that  what 
we  cannot  explain  may  find  its  explanation 
in  time.  '  Life  is  lost,'  cries  Uncle  Vanya, 
*  Life  is  done  for,'  repeat  the  voices  of 
girls  innocently  perishing — yet  nothing  is 
lost.  The  very  horror  which  a  drowning 
man  experiences  goes  to  show  that  the 
drowning  is  nothing  final.  It  is  only  the 
beginning  of  greater  events.  The  less  a 
man  has  fulfilled  in  experience,  the  more 
in  him  remains  of  unsatisfied  passion  and 
desire,  the  greater  are  the  grounds  for  think- 
ing that  his  essence  cannot  be  destroyed, 
but  must  manifest  itself  somehow  or  other 
in  the  universe.  Voluntary  asceticism  and 
self-denial,  such  common  human  phenomena, 
help  to  solve  the  riddle.  Nobody  compels 
a  man,  he  imposes  suffering  and  abstinence 
on  himself.  It  is  an  incomprehensible  in- 
stinct, but  still  an  instinct  which,  rooted  in 
the  depths  of  our  nature,  prompts  us  to  a 
decision  repugnant  to  reason :  renounce 
life,  save  yourself.    The  majority  of  men 

201 


do  not  hear  or  do  not  heed  the  prompting. 
And  then  nature,  which  cannot  rely  on  our 
sensibility,  has  recourse  to  violence.  She 
shows  glimpses  of  Paradise  to  us  in  our 
youth,  awakens  hopes  and  impossible  desires, 
and  at  the  moment  of  our  supreme  expecta- 
tion she  shows  us  the  hollowness  of  our  hope. 
Nearly  every  life  can  be  summed  up  in  a 
few  words  :  man  was  shown  heaven — and 
thrown  into  the  mud.  We  are  all  ascetics 
— voluntary  or  involuntary.  Here  on  earth 
dreams  and  hopes  are  only  awakened,  not 
fulfilled.  And  he  who  has  endured  most 
suffering,  most  privation,  will  awaken  in 
the  afterwards  most  keenly  alive."  Such 
long  speeches  metaphysics  whispers  to  us. 
And  we  repeat  them,  often  leaving  out  the 
"  it  may  be."  Sometimes  we  believe  them, 
and  forge  our  philosophies  from  them. 
Even  we  go  so  far  as  to  assert  that  had  we 
the  power  we  would  change  nothing,  abso- 
lutely nothing  in  the  world.  And  yet,  if 
by  some  miracle  such  power  came  into  our 
hands,  how  triumphantly  we  would  send 
to  the  devil  all  philosophies  and  lofty  world- 
conceptions,  all  ideals  and  metaphysics, 
and  plainly  and  simply,  without  reflection, 
abolish  sufferings,  deformities,  failures,  all 
those  things  to  which  we  attach  such  a  high 

202 


educational  value,  abolish  them  from  the 
face  of  the  earth.  We  are  fed  up,  oh,  how 
fed  up  we  are  with  carrying  on  our  studies. 
But  it  can't  be  helped.  Faute  de  mieux, 
let  us  keep  on  inventing  systems,  thinking 
them  out.  But  let  us  agree  not  to  be  cross 
with  those  who  don't  want  to  have  anything 
to  do  with  our  systems.  Really,  they  have 
a  perfect  right. 

32 
Old  age  must  be  respected — so  all  say, 
even  the  old.  And  the  young  willingly 
meet  the  demand.  But  in  such  spontaneous, 
even  often  emphatic  respect,  is  there  not 
something  insulting  to  old  age.  Every 
young  man,  by  his  voluntary  deference, 
seems  to  say  :  "  And  still  the  rising  star 
shines  brighter  than  the  setting."  And 
the  old,  accepting  the  respect,  are  well 
aware  that  they  can  count  on  nothing  more. 
The  young  are  attentive  and  respectful  to 
the  old  only  upon  the  express  condition 
that  the  latter  shall  behave  like  old  people, 
and  stand  aside  from  life.  Let  a  real  man 
try  to  follow  Faust's  example,  and  what  a 
shindy  there  will  be !  The  old,  being  as  a 
rule  helpless,  are  compelled  to  bow  to  public 
opinion  and  behave  as  if  their  only  interests 

203 


were  the  interests  of  righteousness,  good 
name,  and  such-like  Platonic  attributes. 
Only  a  few  go  against  the  convention, 
and  these  are  monsters  and  degenerates. 
We  do  not  wish  old  men  to  have  desires, 
so  that  life  is  arranged  as  if  old  men 
desired  nothing.  This,  of  course,  is  no 
great  matter  :  even  the  young  are  compelled 
to  be  satisfied  with  less  than  nothing,  in  our 
system.  We  are  not  out  to  meddle  with 
human  rights.  Our  point  is  that  science 
and  philosophy  take  enforced  appearances 
for  reality.  Grey  hair  is  supposed  to  be  a 
sure  sign  of  victory  over  the  passions. 
Hence,  seeing  that  we  must  all  come  to 
grey  hairs,  therefore  the  ultimate  business 
of  man  is  to  overcome  the  passions.  .  .  .  On 
this  granite  foundation  whole  systems  of 
philosophy  are  built.  It  is  not  worth  while 
quarrelling  with  a  custom — let  us  continue 
to  pay  respect  to  old  age.  But  let  us  look 
in  other  directions  for  philosophic  bases. 
It  is  time  to  open  a  free  road  to  the  passions 
even  in  the  province  of  metaphysics. 

Dostoevsky  —  advocatus  diaboli.  —  Dos- 
toevsky,  like  Nietzsche,  disliked  Protest- 
antism, and  tried  every  means  of  degrading 

204 


it  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  As  normally 
he  was  not  over  scrupulous,  it  is  probable 
he  never  took  the  trouble  to  acquaint  him- 
self with  Luther's  teaching.  His  flair  did 
not  deceive  him  :  the  Protestant  religion 
and  morality  was  most  unsuitable  to  him 
and  his  kind.  But  does  this  mean  that  it 
was  to  be  calumniated,  and  judged,  as 
Dostoevsky  judged  it,  merely  by  the  etymo- 
logical meaning  of  a  word  ?  Protestant — a 
protester,  one  who  only  protests  and  has  no 
positive  content.  A  child's  text-book  of 
history  will  show  the  absurdity  of  the  defini- 
tion. Protestantism  is,  on  the  whole,  the 
most  positive,  assertive  creed  of  all  the 
Christian  religions.  It  certainly  protested 
against  Catholicism,  but  against  the  de- 
structive tendencies  in  the  latter,  and  in  the 
name  of  positive  ideals.  Catholicism  relied 
too  much  on  its  power  and  its  spell,  and 
most  of  all  on  the  infallibility  of  its  dogmas 
to  which  it  offered  millions  of  victims.  To 
maim  and  mutilate  a  man  ad  majorem 
gloriam  Dei  was  considered  a  perfectly 
proper  thing  in  the  Middle  Ages,  the  period 
of  bloom  for  Catholicism.  At  the  risk  of 
appearing  paradoxical,  I  venture  to  assert 
that  ideas  have  been  invented  only  for  the 
purpose    of   giving    the    right    to    mutilate 

205 


people.  The  Middle  Ages  nourished  a  myster- 
ious, incomprehensible  hatred  for  everything 
normal,  self-satisfied,  complete.  A  young, 
healthy,  handsome  man,  at  peace  with 
himself,  aroused  suspicion  and  hostility  in 
a  believing  Catholic.  His  very  appearance 
offended  religion  and  confuted  dogma.  It 
was  not  necessary  to  examine  him.  Even 
though  he  went  to  church,  and  gave  no 
sign  of  doubt,  either  in  deed  or  word,  yet 
he  must  be  a  heretic,  to  be  converted  at  all 
cost.  And  we  know  the  Catholic  cost: 
privation,  asceticism,  mortification  of 
the  flesh.  The  most  normal  person,  kept 
on  a  monastic  regime,  will  lose  his  spiritual 
balance,  and  all  those  virtues  which  belong 
to  a  healthy  spirit  and  a  healthy  body.  This 
was  all  Catholicism  needed.  It  tried  to 
obtain  from  people  the  extreme  endeavour 
of  their  whole  being.  Ordinary,  natural 
love,  which  found  its  satisfaction — this  was 
sinful.  Monks  and  priests  were  condemned 
to  celibacy — hence  monstrous  and  abnormal 
passions  developed.  Poverty  was  preached, 
and  the  most  unheard-of  greed  appeared 
in  the  world,  the  more  secret  the  stronger 
it  became.  Humility  was  essential — and 
out  of  bare-footed  monks  sprang  despots 
who    had    no    limits    to    their    ambitions. 

206 


Luther  was  the  last  man  to  understand  the 
meaning  and  value  of  the  tasks  which 
Catholicism  had  set  itself.  What  he  saw 
in  Rome  was  not  the  accidental  outcome 
of  this  or  the  other  historical  circumstance, 
but  a  result  of  the  age-long  eflFort  of  genera- 
tions that  had  striven  to  attribute  to  life 
as  alarming  and  dangerous  a  nature  as 
possible.  The  sincere,  direct,  rustic  German 
monk  was  too  simple-minded  to  make  out 
what  was  going  on  in  Rome.  He  thought 
there  existed  one  truth,  and  that  the  essence 
of  Catholicism  lay  in  what  seemed  to  him 
an  exemplary,  virtuous  life.  He  went  direct 
to  his  aim  }  What  meaning  can  monastic- 
ism  have  ?  Why  deprive  a  priest  of  family 
happiness  ?  How  accept  the  licentiousness 
of  the  pope's  capital  ?  The  common  sense 
of  the  normal  German  revolted  against  the 
absurdity  of  such  a  state  of  things — and 
Luther  neither  could  nor  would  see  any  good 
where  common  sense  was  utterly  forgotten. 
The  violent  oscillation  of  life  resulting  from 
the  continuous  quick  passage  from  asceticism 
and  blind  faith  to  unbelief  and  freedom  of 
the  passions  aroused  a  mystic  horror  in  the 
honest  monk  and  released  the  enormous 
powers  in  him  necessary  to  start  the  great 
struggle.     How  could  he  help  protesting  ? 

207 


And  who  was  the  denier,  Luther,  or  the 
Rome  which  passed  on  from  the  keeping 
of  the  Divine  Word  to  the  arbitrary  ordain- 
ing of  all  the  mysteries  of  life  ?  Luther 
might  have  forgiven  the  monks  had  they 
confined  themselves  to  sophistries.  But 
mediaeval  monks  had  nothing  in  common 
with  our  philosophers.  They  did  not  look 
for  world-conceptions  in  books,  and  logical 
tournaments  amused  them  only  moderately. 
They  threw  themselves  into  the  deeps  of 
life,  they  experimented  on  themselves  and 
their  neighbours.  They  passed  from  morti- 
fication to  licentious  bacchanalia.  They 
feared  nothing,  spared  nothing.  In  a  word, 
the  Rome  against  which  Luther  arose  had 
undertaken  to  build  Babylon  again,  not 
with  stones,  but  with  human  souls.  Luther, 
horrified,  withdrew,  and  with  him  half 
Europe  was  withdrawn.  That  is  his  positive 
merit.  And  Dostoevsky  attacked  Luther- 
anism,  and  pitied  the  old  Catholicism  and  the 
breathless  heights  to  which  its  "  spiritual " 
children  had  risen.  Wholesome  morality 
and  its  support  is  not  enough  for  Dostoevsky. 
All  this  is  not  "  positive,"  it  is  only  "  pro- 
test." Whether  I  am  believed  or  not,  I 
will  repeat  that  Vladimir  Soloviov,  who 
held   that   Dostoevsky   was   a   prophet,   is 

208 


wrong,  and  that  N.  K.  Mikhailovsky,  who 
calls  him  a  cruel  talent  and  a  grubber  after 
buried  treasure,  is  right.  Dostoevsky 
grubs  after  buried  treasure — no  doubt  about 
that.  And,  therefore,  it  would  be  more 
becoming  in  the  younger  generation  that 
still  marches  under  the  flag  of  pious  idealism 
if,  instead  of  choosing  him  as  a  spiritual 
leader,  they  avoided  the  old  sorcerer,  in 
whom  only  those  gifted  with  great  short- 
sightedness or  lack  of  experience  in  life  could 
fail  to  see  the  dangerous  man. 

.34 
It  is  boring  and  difficult  to  convince  people, 

and  after  all,  not  necessary.     It  would  be 

much   better  if  every  individual   kept  his 

own  opinions.     Unfortunately,  it  cannot  be. 

Whether  you  like  it  or  not,  you  have  to 

admit  the  law  of  gravitation.     Some  people 

find   it   necessary   to   admit   the   origin   of 

man  from  the  monkey.     In  the  empirical 

realm,    however    humiliating    it    may    be, 

there   are   certain   real,   binding,   universal 

truths  against  which  no  rebellion  will  avail. 

With  what  pleasure  would  we  declare  to  a 

representative  of  science  that  fire  does  not 

burn,  that  rattlesnakes  are  not  poisonous, 

that  a  fall  from  a  high  tower  is  perfectly 

209 


agreeable,  etc.,  etc.,  supposing  he  were 
obliged  to  prove  to  us  the  contrary.  Un- 
luckily the  scientific  person  is  free  from  the 
burden  of  proof :  nature  proves,  and  thor- 
oughly. If  nature,  like  metaphysics,  set 
out  to  compel  us  through  syllogisms  or 
sermons  to  believe  in  her,  how  little  she 
would  get  out  of  us.  She  is  much  more 
sagacious.  Morality  and  logic  she  has  left 
to  Hegel  and  Spinoza,  for  herself  she  has 
taken  a  cudgel.  Now  then,  try  to  argue 
against  this  !  You  will  give  in  against  your 
will.  The  cleverest  of  all  the  metaphysi- 
cians, Catholic  inquisitors,  imitated  nature. 
They  rarely  tried  the  word,  and  trusted  to 
the  fire  of  faggots  rather  than  of  the  heart. 
Had  they  only  had  more  power,  it  would 
not  be  possible  to  find  two  people  in  the 
whole  world  disbelieving  in  the  infallibility 
of  the  Pope.  Metaphysical  ideas,  dreamily 
expecting  to  conquer  tlie  world  by  reasoned 
exposition,  will  never  attain  dominion. 
If  they  are  bent  on  success,  let  them  try 
more  effective  methods  of  convincing. 

35 

Evolution. — In  recent  years  we  see  more 

and    more    change    in    the    philosophies    of 
writers    and    even    of    non-literary    people. 

210 


The  old  men  are  beside  themselves — such 
shiftiness  seems  indecent.     After  all,  con- 
victions  are    not   gloves.     But    the   young 
carelessly  pass  on  from  one  idea  to  another. 
Irresolute   men   are   somewhat   timid,   and 
although   they  abandon  their  former  con- 
victions  they   do   not   declare   the   change 
openly.     Others,  however,  plainly  announce, 
as  if  it  were  nothing,  how  far  they  now  are 
from  the  beliefs  they  held  six  months  ago. 
One  even  publishes  whole  volumes  relating 
how  he  passed  on  from  one  philosophy  to 
another,  and  then  to  a  third.     People  see 
nothing  alarming  in  that  kind  of  "  evolu- 
tion."   They  believe  it  is  in  the  ordering 
of  things.     But  not  so  at  all !     The  readiness 
to  leave  off  one  set  of  convictions  in  order 
to    assume    another    set    shows    complete 
indifference  to  convictions  altogether.     Not 
for  nothing   do  the  old   sound  the   alarm. 
But  to  us  who  have  fought  so  long  against 
all   kinds   of  constancy,   the  levity   of  the 
young  is  a  pleasant  sight.    They  will  don 
materialism,  positivism,  Kantianism,  spirit- 
ualism, and  so  on,  one  after  the  other,  till 
they  realise  that  all  theories,  ideas  and  ideals 
are  as  of  little  consequence  as  the  hoop- 
skirts  and  crinolines  of  our  grandmothers. 
Then  they  will  begin  to  live  without  ideals 

211 


and  pre-arranged  purposes,  without  fore- 
sight, relying  on  chance  and  their  own  ready 
wit.  This  way,  too,  must  be  tried.  Perhaps 
we  shall  do  better  by  it.  .  .  .  Anyhow,  it  will 
be  more  fun. 

36 

Strength  of  zvill. — Weakness  and  paralysis 
of  the  will,  a  very  dangerous  disease  in 
our  times,  and  in  most  other  times,  consists 
not  in  the  absolute  loss  of  desire,  such  as 
takes  place  in  the  very  old,  but  in  the  loss 
of  the  capacity  to  translate  desire  into  deed. 
A  diseased  will  is  •  often  met  in  violently 
passionate  men,  so  that  the  proverb — "  Say 
I  will  not,  not  I  cannot " — does  not  always 
hold  good.  Man  often  would,  but  cannot. 
And  then  the  force  of  desire  instead  of 
moving  to  outward  creation,  works  inwardly. 
This  is  justly  considered  the  most  dangerous 
effect  of  the  weakening  of  the  will.  For 
inward  working  is  destructive  working. 
Man  does  not  only,  to  put  it  scientifically, 
fail  to  adapt  nature  to  his  needs,  but  he 
loses  his  own  power  of  adaptability  to 
outward  circumstances.  The  most  ordinary 
doctor,  or  even  anybody,  decides  that  he 
has  before  him  a  pathological  case  which 
must  be  treated  with  care.     The  patient  is 

212 


of  the  same  opinion,  whilst  he  still  hopes. 
But  when  the  treatment  has  had  no  results, 
the  doctor  draws  back  and  speaks  of  the 
inadequacy  of  his  science.  Then  what  is 
the  patient  to  retire  upon  ?  It  is  disgusting 
to  speak  of  an  incurable  disease.  So  he 
begins  to  think,  think,  think — all  the  time 
about  things  of  which  nobody  thinks. 
He  is  gradually  forgotten,  and  gradually 
he  forgets  everything — but  first  of  all,  that 
widespread  truth  which  asserts  that  no 
judgments  are  valid  save  those  that  are 
accepted  and  universal.  Not  that  he  disputes 
the  truth  :  he  forgets  it,  and  there  is  none 
to  remind  him.  To  him  all  his  judgments 
seem  valid  and  important.  Of  course  he 
cannot  advance  the  principle :  let  all  men 
turn  from  the  external  world  into  themselves. 
But  why  advance  a  principle  at  all  ?  One 
can  simply  say  :  I  am  indifferent  to  the 
destinies  of  the  external  world.  I  do  not 
want  to  move  mountains  or  turn  rivers 
aside  or  rearrange  the  map  of  Europe. 
I  don't  even  want  to  go  to  the  tobacconist 
to  buy  cigarettes.  I  don't  want  to  do 
anything.  I  want  to  think  that  my  inaction 
is  the  most  important  thing  on  earth,  that 
any  "  disease  "  is  better  than  health,  and 
so  on  and  so  on  without   end.    To  what 

213 


thoughts  will  not  a  man  abandoned  by- 
medicine  and  doctors  sink  down !  His 
judgments  are  not  binding  on  us,  that  is 
as  clear  as  day.  But  are  they  uninteresting  ? 
And  is  that  paralysis,  that  weakness  of 
wilj,  a  disease  only  ? 

37 

Death  and  metaphysics. — A  superficial 
observer  knows  that  the  best  things  in  life 
are  hard  to  attain.  Some  psychologists 
even  consider  that  the  chief  beauty  of  the 
highest  things  consists  in  their  unattain- 
ability.  This  is  surely  not  true — yet  there 
is  a  grain  in  it.  The  roads  to  good  things 
are  dangerous  to  travel.  Is  it  because  nature 
is  so  much  poorer  than  we  imagine,  so  she 
must  lock  up  her  blessings,  or  is  there  some 
greater  meaning  in  it,  that  we  have  not 
guessed  ?  For  the  fact  is,  the  more  alluring 
an  end  we  have  in  view,  the  more  risks  and 
horrors  we  must  undertake  to  get  there. 
May  we  not  also  make  a  contrary  suggestion  : 
that  behind  every  danger  something  good 
is  hidden,  and  that  therefore  danger  serves 
as  an  indication,  a  mark  to  guide  us  onwards,, 
not  as  a  warning,  as  we  are  taught  tc 
believe.  To  decide  this  would  be  to  decide 
that  bcliind  death,  the  greatest  of  dangers 
214 


must  lie  the  most  promising  things.  It  is 
as  well  not  to  speculate  further.  We  had 
best  stop  lest  we  quarrel  even  with  meta- 
physics. Traditional  metaphysics  has 
always  been  able  to  illumine  our  temporal 
existence  with  the  reflected  beams  of 
eternity.  Let  us  follow  the  example.  Let 
us  make  no  attempt  to  know  the  absolute. 
If  you  have  discovered  a  comforting  hypo- 
thesis, even  in  the  upper  transcendental 
air,  drag  it  quickly  to  earth  where  labouring 
men  forever  await  even  an  imaginary  relief 
from  their  lot.  We  must  make  use  of 
everything,  even  of  death,  to  serve  the  ends 
of  this  life  of  ours. 

38 

7he  future. — A  clever,  reasonable  boy, 
accustomed  to  trust  his  common  sense,  read 
in  a  book  for  children  a  description  of  a 
shipwreck  which  occurred  just  as  the  pas- 
sengers were  eating  their  sweets  at  dessert. 
He  was  astonished  to  learn  that  everyone, 
women  and  children  as  well,  who  could 
give  no  assistance  whatever  in  saving  the 
ship,  left  their  dessert  and  rushed  on  deck 
with  wailing  and  tears.  Why  wail,  why 
rush  about,  why  be  stupidly  agitated  ? 
The  crew  knew  their  business  and  would  do 

215 


all  that  could  be  done.     If  you  are  going 
to  perish,  perish  you  will,  no  matter  how 
you  scream.     It  seemed  to  the  boy  that  if 
he   had   been   on   the   ship   he   would   just 
have  gone  on  eating  his  sweets  to  the  last 
moment.     Justice   should   be   done   to   this 
judicious  and  irreproachable  opinion.   There 
remained  only  a  few  minutes  to  live — would 
it   not   have   been   better   to   enjoy   them  ? 
The   logic   is   perfect,   worthy   of  Aristotle. 
And  it  was  found  impossible  to  prove  to  the 
boy   that  he  would  have  left  his   sweets, 
even  his  favourite  sweets,  under  the  same 
circumstances,    and    rushed    and    screamed 
with    the    rest.     Hence    a    moral — do    not 
decide  about  the  future.      To-day  common 
sense  is   uppermost,   and   sweets   are  your 
highest  law.     But  to-morrow  you  will  get 
rid  of  normality  and  sense,  you  will  link 
on  with  nonsense  and  absurdity,  and  prob- 
ably you  will  even  get  a  taste  for  bitters. 
What  do  you  think  ? 

39 
A  priori  synthetic  judgments. — Kant,  as 
we  know,  found  in  mathematics  and  the 
natural  sciences  a  priori  synthetic  judg- 
ments. Was  he  right  or  wrong  ?  Are  the 
judgments    he     indicated    a    priori    or    a 

zi6 


posteriori  ?  Anyhow,  one  thing  Is  certain  : 
they  are  not  accepted  as  absolutely,  but  only 
as  relatively  indisputable.  In  metaphysics, 
where  the  only  curious  and  important 
truths  are  hidden,  the  case  is  different. 
Kant  was  compelled  to  admit  that  just 
where  metaphysics  begin  the  capacity  of 
our  human  reason  to  judge  a  priori  ends. 
But  since  we  cannot  dispense  with  meta- 
physical judgments,  he  proposed  to  substi- 
tute for  them  postulates.  At  the  same  time 
he  admitted  the  optimistic  presupposition 
that  in  the  domain  of  the  transcendental 
we  shall  find  all  that  we  miss  in  the  world  of 
phenomena.  So  that,  because  he  could 
not  invent  a  truly  scientific  metaphysics, 
he  contrived  to  present  us  with  a  non- 
scientific  sort.  Which  is  to  say,  after  many 
round-about  journeys  he  brings  his  readers 
along  the  opposite  way  right  back  to  the 
very  spot  from  which  he  led  them  oft'. 
Surely  non-scientific  metaphysics  existed 
before  Kant :  the  mediaeval  philosophers 
had  plenty  of  phantasies  and  speculations, 
all  supported  by  "  moral  "  proofs.  If  Kant 
wanted  to  reform  metaphysics,  he  should 
have  got  rid  of  its  favourite  method  of 
obtaining  truths  through  inferential  "  con- 
clusions."   Men  are  greedy,  they  want  to 

217 


learn  mucli,  and  get  their  knowledge  cheap. 
So  they  think  that  every  truth  they  have 
paid  for  with  experience  and  loss  of  energy 
entitles  them  to  a  few  more  truths  gratis : 
or,  in  philosophic  language,  a  priori^  by 
deduction.  They  are  not  ashamed  to  specu- 
late with  a  gift  that  has  been  given  them. 
Instead  of  looking,  listening,  touching, 
seeking,  they  want  to  infer  and  conclude. 
Certainly  if  they  could  wring  any  secret  out 
of  nature,  no  matter  by  what  means,  cunning, 
impudence,  fraud,  we  would  forgive  them 
— conquerors  are  not  judged.  But  nothing 
comes  of  their  "  conclusions "  save  meta- 
physical systems  and  empty  prattle.  It  is 
surely  time  to  give  up  conclusions,  and  get 
truth  a  posteriori^  as  did  Shakspeare,  Goethe, 
Dostoevsky;  that  is,  every  time  you  want 
to  know  anything,  go  and  look  and  find  out. 
And  if  one  is  lazy,  or  horrified  at  a  new 
experiment,  let  him  train  himself  to  look 
on  ultimate  questions  with  indifference,  as 
the  positivists  do.  But  moral,  ontological 
and  such  like  arguments ! — really,  it  is 
disgusting  to  talk  about  them.  Every 
new  experiment  is  interesting;  but  our 
conclusions,  /./?.,  synthetic  judgments  ^^norz, 
are  mostly  pompous  lies,  not  worth  the  scrap 
of  paper  on  which  they  are  recorded. 

218 


40 

General  rules. — People  go  to  philosophers 
for  general  principles.  And  since  philo- 
sophers are  human,  they  are  kept  busy 
supplying  the  market  with  general  principles. 
But  what  sense  is  there  in  them  ?  None 
at  all.  Nature  demands  individual  creative 
activity  from  us.  Men  won't  understand 
this,  so  they  wait  forever  for  the  ultimate 
truths  from  philosophy,  which  they  will 
never  get.  Why  should  not  every  grown-up 
person  be  a  cremator,  live  in  his  own  way  at 
his  ovvu  risk  and  have  his  own  experience  ? 
Children  and  raw  youths  must  go  in  leading 
strings.  But  adult  people  who  want  to 
feel  the  reins  should  be  despised.  They  are 
cowards,  and  slothful :  afraid  to  try,  they 
eternally  go  to  the  wise  for  advice.  And 
the  wise  do  not  hesitate  to  take  the  re- 
sponsibility for  the  lives  of  others.  They 
invent  general  rules,  as  if  they  had  access 
to  the  sources  of  knowledge.  What  foolery  ! 
The  wise  are  no  wiser  than  the  stupid — they 
have  only  more  conceit  and  effrontery. 
Every  intelligent  man  laughs  in  his  soul  at 
*'  bookish  "  views.  And  are  not  books  the 
work  of  the  wise  ?  They  are  often  extremely 
interesting — but  only  in  so  far  as  they  do  not 
contain  general   rules.    Woe  to  him  who 

219 


would  build  up  his  life  according  to  Hegel, 
Schopenhauer,  Tolstoy,  Schiller,  or  Dos- 
toevsky.  He  must  read  them,  but  he  must 
have  sense,  a  mind  of  his  own  to  live  with. 
Those  who  have  tried  to  live  according  to 
theories  from  books  have  found  this  out. 
At  the  best,  their  efforts  produced  banality. 
There  is  no  alternative.  Whether  man 
likes  or  not  he  will  at  last  have  to  realise 
that  cliches  are  worthless,  and  that  he 
must  live  from  himself.  There  are  no  all- 
binding,  universal  judgments — let  us  manage 
with  non-binding,  non-universal  ones.  Only 
professors  will  suffer  for  it.  .  .  . 

Metaphysical  consolations. — Metaphysics 
mercilessly  persecutes  all  eudaemonistic  doc- 
trines, seeing  in  them  a  sort  of  laesio 
majestatis  of  human  dignity.  Our  dignity 
forbids  us  to  place  human  happiness  in  the 
highest  goal.  Suppose  it  is  so  ?  But  why 
then  invent  consolations,  even  metaphysical 
ones  ?  Why  give  to  such  a  "  pure  "  ideal 
concept  as  metaphysics  such  a  coarse 
"  sensual  "  partner  as  consolation  ?  — sen- 
sual in  the  Kantian  meaning  of  the  word. 
Metaphysics  had  much  better  associate 
herself  with  proud  disconsolation.     Consola- 

220 


tlon  brings  calm  and  ease,  even  quiet 
gratification  to  the  soul.  But  surely,  if 
metaphysics  condescend  to  accept  any  assist- 
ance whatever,  she  must  scorn  all  earthly 
gratifications,  leave  them  to  wingless  positiv- 
ism and  materialism.  What  are  joys  and 
pains  to  metaphysics  ? — she  is  one  thing, 
they  another.  Yet  all  of  a  sudden  meta- 
physicians begin  to  shout  about  consola- 
tions. Evidently  there  is  a  misunderstand- 
ing here,  and  a  big  one.  The  more  you 
pierce  to  the  ultimate  ends  of  the  "  infinite  '* 
metaphysical  problems,  the  more  finite  they 
reveal  themselves.  Metaphysicians  only 
look  out  for  some  new  boon — I  nearly  said 
pleasure.  Voltaire  said  that  if  there  was  no 
God,  then  He  should  be  invented.  We 
explain  these  words  by  the  great  French- 
man's extreme  positivism.  But  the  form 
only  is  positive,  the  content  is  purely 
metaphysical.  All  that  a  metaphysician 
wants  to  do  is  to  convince  himself  that  God 
exists.  No  matter  whether  he  is  mistaken 
or  not,  he  has  found  a  consolation.  It  is 
impossible  for  him  to  see  that  his  belief  in 
a  certain  fact  does  not  make  that  fact 
veritable.  The  whole  question  is  whether 
there  does  exist  a  supreme,  conscious  First 
Cause,  or  whether  we  are  slaves  to  the  laws 

221 


of  dead  necessity.  But  what  does  the 
metaphysician  care  about  this  real  question  ! 
Having  declared  himself  the  avowed  enemy 
of  eudaemonism,  he  next  seeks  consolation, 
nothing  but  consolation.  To  doubt  his 
right  to  be  consoled  drives  him  to  fury  and 
madness.  He  is  prepared  to  support  his 
convictions  by  every  means — ranging  from 
righteous  indignation  to  fists.  It  is  obvi- 
ously futile  to  try  to  enlighten  such  a 
creature.  Once  a  man  cares  nothing  for 
God,  and  seeks  only  to  make  the  best  of  his 
life,  you  will  not  tear  away  his  attention 
from  the  immediate  moment.  But  perhaps 
there  is  a  God,  and  neither  Voltaire  nor  the 
metaphysicians  have  any  need  to  invent 
Him.  The  metaphysicians  never  saw  that 
an  avowed  disbelief  in  God  does  not  prove 
the  non-existence  of  God,  but  just  the 
opposite ;  it  is  a  surer  sign  of  faith  than 
ever  belief  is.  Unfortunate  metaphysicians  ! 
They  might  have  found  their  greatest  conso- 
lation here,  and  fists  and  moral  indignation 
and  other  forms  of  chastisement  to  which 
they  have  been  driven  might  have  been 
spared  us 


222 


42 

Practical  advice. — People  who  read  much 
must  ahvays  keep  it  in  mind  that  life 
is  one  thing,  literature  another.  Not  that 
authors  invariably  lie.  I  declare  that  there 
are  writers  who  rarely  and  most  reluctantly 
lie.  But  one  must  know  how  to  read,  and 
that  isn't  easy.  Out  of  a  hundred  book- 
readers  ninety-nine  have  no  idea  what  they 
are  reading  about.  It  is  a  common  belief, 
for  example,  that  any  writer  who  sings  of 
suflering  must  be  ready  at  all  times  to  open 
his  arms  to  the  ^  weary  and  heavy-laden. 
This  is  what  his  readers  feel  when  they  read 
his  books.  Then  when  they  approach  him 
with  their  woes,  and  find  that  he  runs  away 
without  looking  back  at  them,  they  are 
filled  with  indignation  and  talk  of  the  dis- 
crepancy between  word  and  deed.  Whereas 
the  tact  is,  the  singer  has  more  than 
enough  woes  of  his  own,  and  he  sings  them 
because  he  can't  get  rid  of  them.  Uuccello 
canta  nella  gabbia,  non  di  gioia  ma  di 
rabbia,  says  the  Italian  proverb :  "  The 
bird  sings  in  the  cage,  not  from  joy  but 
from  rage."  It  is  impossible  to  love  sufferers, 
particularly  hopeless  sufferers,  and  whoever 
says  otherwise  is  a  deliberate  liar.  *'  Come 
unto  Me  all  ye  that  labour  and  are  heavy 

223 


laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest."  But  you 
remember  what  the  Jews  said  about  Him: 
"  He  speaks  as  one  having  authority ! " 
And  if  Jesus  had  been  unable,  or  had  not 
possessed  the  right,  to  answer  this  sceptical 
taunt,  He  would  have  had  to  renounce  His 
words.  We  common  mortals  have  neither 
divine  powers  nor  divine  rights,  we  can 
only  love  our  neighbours  whilst  they  still 
have  hope,  and  any  pretence  of  going  beyond 
this  is  empty  swagger.  Ask  him  who  sings 
of  suffering  for  nothing  but  his  songs. 
Rather  think  of  alleviating  his  burden  than 
of  requiring  alleviation  from  him.  Surely 
not  for  ever  should  we  ask  any  poet  to  sob 
and  look  upon  tears.  I  will  end  with  another 
Italian  saying :  Non  e  tin  si  triste  cane  che 
non  meni  la  coda.  ..."  No  dog  so  wretched 
but  he  wags  his  tail  sometimes." 

43 
If   a   patient   fulfils   all  the   orders   of   a 

sensible  doctor,  we  say  he  behaves  wisely. 

If    he    wantonly    neglects    his    treatment, 

we    say    he    acts    stupidly.     If    a    healthy 

person    wished    to    inoculate    himself    with 

some   dangerous   disease — say  phthisis — \^■e 

should  say  he  was  mad,  and  forcibly  restrain 

him.     To  such  an  extent  are  we  convinced 

224 


that  QTsease  is  evil,  health  good.  Well — 
on  what  is  our  conviction  based  f  At  a 
glance  the  question  seems  absurd.  But 
then  at  a  glance  people  would  absolutely 
refuse  to  doubt  the  fixity  of  the  earth,  at  a 
glance  an  ordinary  person  would  giggle 
if  he  was  shown  the  problem  of  the  relation 
between  the  real  world  and  the  ideal. 
Who  knows  what  would  seem  amenable 
to  discussion  to  the  ordinary  person  .?  The 
philosopher  has  no  right  to  appeal  to  the 
ordinary  person.  The  philosopher  must 
doubt  and  doubt  and  doubt,  and  question 
when  nobody  questions,  and  risk  making 
a  laughing-stock  of  himself.  If  common 
sense  were  enough  to  settle  all  problems, 
we  should  have  known  everything  long 
age.  So  that — why  do  we  value  health 
more  than  sickness  ?  Or  even  further — 
which  is  better,  health  or  sickness.  If 
we  will  drop  the  utilitarian  point  of  view — 
and  all  are  agreed  that  this  has  no  place 
in  philosophy — then  we  shall  see  at  once 
that  we  have  no  grounds  whatever  for 
preferring  health  and  sickness.  We  have 
invented  neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  We 
found  them  both  in  the  world  along  with 
us.  Why  then  do  we,  who  know  so  little 
about    it,    take    upon    ourselves    to    judge 

p  225 


wMch  are  nature's  successes,  which  her 
failures  ?  Health  is  agreeable — sickness 
disagreeable.  But  this  consideration  is  un- 
worthy of  a  philosopher :  otherwise  why 
be  a  philosopher,  why  distinguish  oneself 
from  the  herd  ?  The  philosopher  invented 
morality,  which  has  at  its  disposal  various 
pure  ideas  that  have  no  relation  to  empirical 
life.  Then  let  us  go  further.  Reason  should 
have  a  supply  of  pure  ideas  also.  Let 
Reason  judge  in  her  own  independent  way, 
without  conforming  to  conventional  ideas. 
When  she  has  no  other  resort,  let  her 
proceed  by  the  method  of  negation  :  every- 
thing that  common  sense  asserts,  I,  Reason, 
declare  to  be  false.  So — common  sense 
says  sickness  is  bad,  reason  therefore  asserts 
that  sickness  is  the  highest  boon.  Such 
Reason  we  should  call  autonomous,  law- 
unto-itself.  Like  a  real  monarch,  it  is 
guided  only  by  its  own  will.  Let  all  con- 
siderations point  in  favour  of  health.  Reason 
must  remain  inexorable  and  keep  her  stand 
till  we  are  all  brought  to  obedience.  She 
must  praise  suffering,  deformity,  failure, 
hopelessness.  At  every  step  she  must  fight 
commonsense  and  utilitarianism,  until  man- 
kind is  brought  under.  Is  she  afraid  of 
rebellion  ?    Must  she  in  the  last  issue,  like 

226 


morality,  adapt  herself  to  the  inclinations 
of  the  mob  ? 

44 
Experience  and  Science. — As  we  are  well 
aware,  science  does  not,  nay  cannot,  admit 
experience  in  all  its  extent.  She  throws 
overboard  an  enormous  quantity  of 
individual  facts,  regarding  them  as  the 
ballast  of  our  human  vessel.  She  takes  note 
only  of  such  phenomena  as  alternate  con- 
stantly and  with  a  certain  regularity.  Best 
of  all  she  likes  those  phenomena  which  can 
be  artificially  provoked,  when,  so  to  speak, 
experiment  is  possible.  She  explains  the 
rotation  of  the  earth  and  succession  of 
the  seasons  since  a  regular  recurrence  is 
observable,  and  she  demonstrates  thunder 
and  lightning  with  a  spark  from  an  electric 
machine.  In  a  word,  in  so  far  as  a  regular 
alternation  of  phenomena  is  observable, 
so  far  extends  the  realm  of  science.  But 
what  about  those  individual  phenomena 
which  do  not  recur,  and  which  cannot  be 
artificially  provoked  ?  If  all  men  were 
blind,  and  one  for  a  moment  recovered 
his  sight  and  opened  his  eyes  on  God's 
world,  science  would  reject  his  evidence. 
Yet  the  evidence  of  one  seeing  man  is  worth 
that  of  a  million  blind.    Sudden  enlighten- 

227 


ments  are  possible  in  our  life — even  if  they 
endure  only  for  a  few  seconds.  Must  they 
be  passed  over  in  silence  because  they  are 
not  normal  and  cannot  be  provoked  ? — 
or  treated  poetically,  as  beautiful  fictions  ? 
Science  insists  on  it.  She  declares  that 
no  judgments  are  true  except  such  as  can 
be  verified  by  all  and  everyone.  She  exceeds 
her  bounds.  Experience  is  wider  than 
scientific  experiment,  and  individual 
phenomena  mean  much  more  to  us  than 
the  constantly  recurrent. 

Science  is  useful — but  she  need  not  pretend 
to  truth.  She  cannot  know  what  truth  is, 
she  can  only  accumulate  universal  laws. 
Whereas  there  are,  and  always  have  been, 
non-scientific  ways  of  searching  for  truth, 
ways  which  lead,  if  not  to  the  innermost 
secrets,  yet  to  the  threshold.  These  roads, 
however,  we  have  let  fall  into  ruin  whilst 
we  followed  our  modern  methodologies, 
so  now  we  dare  not  even  think  of  them. 
What  gives  us  the  right  to  assert  that 
astrologers,  alchemists,  diviners,  and  sorcerers 
who  passed  the  long  nights  alone  with  their 
thoughts,  wasted  their  time  in  vain  .''  As 
for  the  philosopher's  stone,  that  was  merely 
a  plausible  excuse  invented  to  satisfy  the 
uninitiated.     Could    an  alchemist  dare    to 

228 


confess  openly  that  all  his  efforts  were 
towards  no  useful  or  utilitarian  end  ?  He 
had  to  guard  against  importunate  curiosity 
and  impertinent  authority  in  outsiders. 
So  he  lied,  now  frightening,  now  alluring 
the  mob  through  its  cupidity.  But  certainly 
he  had  his  own  important  work  to  do : 
and  it  had  only  one  fault,  that  it  was  purely 
personal  to  him.  And  about  personal 
matters  it  is  considered  correct  to  keep 
silent.  .  .  .  Astonishing  fact !  As  a  rule 
a  man  hesitates  over  trifles.  But  it  does 
sometimes  occur  that  a  moment  arrives 
when  he  is  filled  with  unheard-of  courage 
and  resolution  in  his  judgments.  He  is 
ready  to  stand  up  for  his  opinions  against 
all  the  world,  dead  or  living.  Whence 
such  sudden  surety,  what  does  it  mean  f 
Rationally  we  can  discover  no  foundation 
for  it.  If  a  lover  has  got  into  his  head  that 
his  beloved  is  the  fairest  woman  on  earth, 
worth  the  whole  of  life  to  him  ;  if  one  who 
has  been  insulted  feels  that  his  offender 
is  the  basest  wretch,  deserving  torture  and 
death  ;  if  a  would-be  Columbus  persuades 
himself  that  America  is  the  only  goal  for 
his  ambition — who  will  convince  such  men 
that  their  opinions,  shared  by  none  but 
themselves,  are  false  or  unjustifiable  ?   And 

229 


for   whose   sake   will    they    renounce   their 
tenets  ?    For  the  sake  of  objective  truth  ? 
that  is,  for  the  pleasure  of  the  assurance 
that  all  men  after  them  will  repeat  their 
judgment    for    truth  ?     They    don't    care. 
Let  Don  Quixote  run  broadcast  with  drawn 
sword,    proving    the    beauty    of    Dulcinea 
or  the  impending  horror  of  windmills.     As 
a  matter  of  fact,  he  and  the  German  philoso- 
phers with  him  have  a  vague  idea,  a  kind 
of  presentiment,  that  their  giants  are  but 
mill-sails,  and  that  their  ideal  on  the  whole 
is  but  a  common  girl  driving  swine  to  pasture. 
To  defy  such   deadly  doubt  they  take  to 
the  sword  or  to  argument,  and  do  not  rest 
until    they    have    succeeded    in    stopping 
the  mouth  of  everybody.     When  from  all 
lips  they  hear  the  praise  of  Dulcinea  they 
say  :    yes,  she  is  beautiful,  and  she  never 
drove  pigs.     When  the  world  beholds  their 
windmilling  exploits  with  amazement  they 
are    filled    with    triumph ;     sheep    are    not 
sheep,   mills  are   not   mills,   as  you   might 
imagine ;     they    are    knights   and    cyclops. 
This  is  called  a  proven,  all-binding,  universal 
truth.    The  support  of  the  mob  is  a  necessary 
condition     of     the    existence     of    modern 
philosophy   and   its    knights   of   the   woful 
countenance.    Scientific  philosophy  wearies 
230 


for  a  new  Cervantes  who  will  put  a  stop  to 
its  paving  the  way  to  truth  by  dint  of 
argument.  All  opinions  have  a  right  to 
exist,  and  if  we  speak  of  privilege,  then 
preference  should  be  given  to  such  as  arc 
most  run  down  to-day  ;  namely,  to  such 
opinions  as  cannot  be  verified  and  which 
are,  for  that  selfsame  reason,  universal. 
Once,  long  ago  "  man  invented  speech  in 
order  to  express  his  real  relation  to  the 
universe."  So  he  may  be  heard,  even  though 
the  relation  he  wishes  to  express  be  unique, 
not  to  verified  by  any  other  individual. 
To  attempt  to  verify  it  by  observations 
and  experiments  is  strictly  forbidden.  If 
the  habit  of  "  objective  verification  "  has 
destroyed  your  native  receptivity  to  such 
an  extent  that  your  eyes  and  ears  are  gone, 
and  you  must  rely  only  on  the  evidence  of 
instruments  or  objects  not  subject  to  your 
will,  then,  of  course,  nothing  is  left  you 
but  to  stick  to  the  belief  that  science  is 
perfect  knowledge.  But  if  your  eyes  live 
and  your  ear  is  sensitive — throw  away 
instruments  and  apparatuses,  forget 
methodology  and  scientific  Don-Quixotism, 
and  try  to  trust  yourself  What  harm 
is  there  in  not  having  universal  judgments 
or  truths  ?     How  will  it  hurt  you  to  see 

231 


sheep  as  sheep  ?  It  is  a  step  forward.  You 
will  learn  not  to  see  with  everybody's 
eyes,  but  to  see  as  none  other  sees.  You 
will  learn  not  to  meditate,  but  to  conjure 
up  and  call  forth  with  words  alien  to  all 
but  yourself  an  unknown  beauty  and  an 
unheard-of  power.  Not  for  nothing,  I 
repeat,  did  astrologers  and  alchemists  scorn 
the  experimental  method — which,  by  the 
way,  far  from  being  anything  new  or 
particularly  modern,  is  as  old  as  the  hills. 
Animals  experiment,  though  they  do  not 
compose  treatises  on  inductive  logic  or 
pride  themselves  on  their  reasoning  powers. 
A  cow  who  has  burnt  her  mouth  in  her 
trough  will  come  up  cautiously  next  time 
to  feed.  Every  experimenter  is  the  same — 
only  he  systematises.  But  animals  can 
often  trust  to  instinct  when  experience 
is  lacking.  And  have  we  humans  got 
sufficient  experience  ?  Can  experience  give 
us  what. we  want  most  ?  If  so,  let  science 
and  craftsmanship  serve  our  everyday  need, 
let  even  philosophy,  also  eager  to  serve, 
go  on  finding  universal  truths.  But  beyond 
craft,  science,  and  philosophy  there  is  another 
region  of  knowledge.  Through  all  the  ages 
men,  each  one  at  his  own  risk,  have  sought 
to    penetrate   into   this    region.     Shall    we, 

232 


men  of  the  twentieth  century,  voluntarily 
renounce  our  supreme  powers  and  rights, 
and  because  public  opinion  demands  it, 
occupy  ourselves  exclusively  with  discover- 
ing useful  information  ?  Or,  in  order  not 
to  appear  mean  or  poverty-stricken  in  our 
own  eyes,  shall  we  accept  in  place  of  the 
philosopher's  stone  our  modern  metaphysics, 
which  muffles  her  dread  of  actuality  in 
postulates,  absolutes,  and  such-like  appar- 
ently transcendental  paraphernalia  ? 


45 

The  Russian  Spirit. — It  will  easily  be 
admitted  that  the  distinguishing  qualities 
of  Russian  literature,  and  of  Russian  art 
in  general,  are  simplicity,  truthfulness,  and 
complete  lack  of  rhetorical  ornament. 
Whether  it  be  to  our  credit  or  to  our  discredit 
is  not  for  me  to  judge,  but  one  thing  seems 
certain:  that  our  simplicity  and  truthful- 
ness are  due  to  our  relatively  scanty  culture. 
Whilst  European  thinkers  have  for  centuries 
been  beating  their  brains  over  insoluble 
problems,  we  have  only  just  begun  to  try 
our  powers.  We  have  no  failures  behind 
us.  The  fathers  of  the  profoundest  Russian 
writers    were    either    landowners,    dividing 

^  '^  ^ 


their  time  between  extravagant  amusement 
and  State  service,  or  peasants  whose  drudgery- 
left  them  no  time  for  idle  curiosity.  Such 
being  the  case,  how  can  we  know  whether 
human  knowledge  has  any  limits  ?  And  if 
we  don't  know,  it  seems  to  us  it  is  only 
because  we  haven't  tried  to  find  out.  Other 
people's  experience  is  not  ours.  We  are 
not  bmmd  by  their  conclusions.  Indeed, 
what  do  we  know  of  the  experience  of  others, 
save  what  we  gather,  very  vaguely  and 
fragmentarily  and  unreliably,  from  books  ? 
It  is  natural  for  us  to  believe  the  best, 
till  the  contrary  is  proved  to  us.  Any 
attempt  to  deprive  us  of  our  belief  meets 
with  the  most  energetic  resistance. 

The  most  sceptical  Russian  hides  a  hope 
at  the  bottom  of  his  soul.  Hence  our 
fearlessness  of  the  truth,  realistic  truth  which 
so  stunned  European  critics.  Realism  was 
invented  in  the  West,  established  there  as 
a  theory.  But  in  the  West,  to  counteract 
it,  were  invented  numberless  other  palli- 
ating theories  whose  business  it  was  to 
soften  down  the  disconsolate  conclusions  of 
Realism.  There  in  Europe  they  have  the 
etrg  supreme,  the  deus  sive  natura,  Hegel's 
absolute,  Kant's  postulates,  English  utili- 
tarianism,       progress,       humanitarianism, 

234 


hundreds    of    philosophic    and    sociologicar 
theories  in  which  even  extreme  realists  can 
so  cleverly  dish  up  what  they  call  life,  that 
life,  or  realism,  ceases  to  be  life  or  reality 
altogether. 

The  Westerner  is  self-reliant.     He  knows 
that  if  he  doesn't  help  himself  nobody  will 
help  him.     So  he  directs  all  his  thoughts  to 
making   the   best   of   his   opportunities.     A 
limited  time  is  granted  him.     If  he  can't 
get  to  the  end  of  his  song  within  the  time- 
limit,  the  song  must  remain  unsung.     Fate 
will    not   give  him  one  minute's  grace  for 
the  unbeaten  bars.    Therefore  as  an  experi- 
enced musician  he  adapts  himself  superbly. 
Not  a  second  is  wasted.     The  tempo  must 
not  drag  for  an  instant,  or  he  is  lost.     The 
tempo  is  everything,  and    it  exacts  facility 
and  quickness  of  movement.     During  a  few 
short  beats  the  artist  must  produce  many 
notes,  and  produce  them  so  as  to  leave  the 
impression  that  he  was  not  hurried,  that  he 
had  all  the  time  in  the  world  at  his  disposal. 
Moreover,    each    note    must    be    complete, 
accomplished,  have  its  fulness  and  its  value. 
Native  talent  alone  will  not  suffice  for  this. 
Experience  is  necessary,  tradition,  training, 
and    inherited    instinct.     Carpe    diem — the 
European  has  been  living  up  to  the  motto  for 

235 


two  thousand  years.  But  if  we  Russians 
are  convinced  of  anything,  it  is  that  we  have 
time  enough  and  to  spare.  To. count  days, 
much  less  hours  and  minutes — find  me 
the  Russian  who  could  demean  himself  to 
such  a  bourgeois  occupation.  We  look 
round,  we  stretch  ourselves,  we  rub  our 
eyes,  we  want  first  of  all  to  decide  what  we 
shall  do,  and  how  we  shall  do  it,  before  we 
can  begin  to  live  in  earnest.  We  don't 
choose  to  decide  anyhow,  nor  at  second- 
hand, from  fragments  of  other  people's 
information.  It  must  be  from  our  own 
experience,  with  our  own  brains,  that  we 
judge.  We  admit  no  traditions.  In  no 
literature  has  there  been  such  a  determined 
struggle  with  tradition  as  in  ours.  We  have 
wanted  to  re-examine  everything,  re-state 
everything.  I  won't  deny  that  our  courage 
is  drawn  from  our  quite  uncultured  confidence 
in  our  own  powers.  Byelinsky,  a  half- 
baked  undergraduate,  deriving  his  know- 
ledge of  European  philosophy  at  third 
hand,  began  a  quarrel  with  the  universe 
over  the  long-forgotten  victims  of  Philip 
II.  and  the  Inquisition.  In  that  quarrel 
is  the  sense  and  essence  of  all  creative 
Russian  literature.  Dostoevsky,  towards 
his  end,  raised  the  same  storm  and  the  same 

236 


question  over  the  little  tear  of  an  unfor- 
tunate child. 

A  Russian  believes  he  can  do  anything, 
hence  he  is  afraid  of  nothing.  He  paints 
life  in  the  gloomiest  colours — and  were  you 
to  ask  him  :  How  can  you  accept  such  a 
life  ?  how  can  you  reconcile  yourself  with 
such  horrors  of  reality  as  have  been  described 
by  all  your  writers,  from  Poushkin  to 
Tchekhov  ?  he  would  answer  in  the  words  of 
Dmitri  Karamazov :  /  do  not  accept  life. 
This  answer  seems  at  first  sight  absurd. 
Since  life  is  here,  impossible  not  to  accept 
it.  But  there  is  a  sub-meaning  in  the  reply, 
a  lingering  belief  in  the  possibility  of  a 
final  triumph  over  "  evil."  In  the  strength 
of  this  belief  the  Russian  goes  forth  to  meet 
his  enemy — he  does  not  hide  from  him. 
Our  sectarians  immolate  themselves.  Tol- 
stoyans  and  votaries .  of  the  various  sects 
that  crop  up  so  plentifully  in  Russia  go  in 
among  the  people,  they  go,  God  knows  to 
what  lengths,  destroying  their  own  lives 
and  the  lives  of  others.  Writers  do  not 
lag  behind  sectarians.  They,  too,  refuse 
to  be  prudent,  to  count  the  cost  or  the  hours. 
Minutes,  seconds,  time-beats,  all  this  is 
so  insignificant  as  to  be  invisible  to  the  naked 
eye.     We   wish   to   draw   with   a   generous 

237 


hand  from  fathomless  eternity,  and  all  that 
is  limited  we  leave  to  European  bourgeoisie. 
With  few  exceptions  Russian  writers  really 
despise  the  pettiness  of  the  West.  Even 
those  who  have  admired  Europe  most  have 
done  so  because  they  failed  most  completely 
to  understand  her.  They  did  not  want  to 
understand  her.  That  is  why  we  have 
always  taken  over  European  ideas  in  such 
fantastic  forms.  Take  the  sixties  for 
example.  With  its  loud  ideas  of  sobriety 
and  modest  outlook,  it  was  a  most  drunken 
period.  Those  who  awaited  the  New  Mes- 
siah and  the  Second  Advent  read  Darwin 
and  dissected  frogs.  It  is  the  same  to-da\-. 
We  allow  ourselves  the  greatest  luxury  that 
man  can  dream  of — sincerity,  truthfulness 
— as  if  we  were  spiritual  Croesuses,  as  if  we 
had  plenty  of  everything,  could  afford  to 
let  everything  be  seen,  ashamed  of  nothing. 
But  even  Croesuses,  the  greatest  sove- 
reigns of  the  world,  did  not  consider  they 
had  the  right  to  tell  the  truth  at  all  times. 
Even  kings  have  to  pretend — think  of 
diplomacy.  Whereas,  we  think  we  may  speak 
the  truth,  and  the  truth  only,  that  any  lie 
which  obscures  our  true  substance  is  a 
crime ;  since  our  true  substance  is  the 
world's  finest  treasure,  its  finest  reality.  .  .  . 

238 


Tell  this  to  a  European,  and  it  wall  seem  a 
joke  to  him,  even  if  he  can  grasp  it  at  all. 
A  European  uses  all  his  powers  of  intellect 
and  talent,  all  his  knowledge  and  his  art 
for  the  purpose  of  concealing  his  real  self 
and  all  that  really  affects  him  : — for  that 
the  natural  is  ugly  and  repulsive,  no  one  in 
Europe  will  dispute  for  a  moment.  Not 
only  the  fine  arts,  but  science  and  philosophy 
in  Europe  tell  lies  instinctively,  by  lying 
they  justify  their  existence.  First  and  last, 
a  European  student  presents  you  with  a 
finished  theoty.  Well,  and  what  does  all 
the  "  finish  "  and  the  completeness  signify  ? 
It  merely  means  that  none  of  our  western 
neighbours  will  end  his  speech  before  the 
last  reassuring  word  is  said ;  he  will  never 
let  nature  have  the  last  word  ;  so  he  rounds 
off  his  synthesis.  With  him,  ornament 
and  rhetoric  is  a  sine  qua  non  of  creative 
utterance,  the  only  remedy  against  all  ills. 
In  philosophy  reigns  theodicy,  in  science, 
the  law  of  sequence.  Even  Kant  could 
not  avoid  declamation,  even  with  him  the 
last  word  is  '*  moral  necessity."  Thus  there 
lies  before  us  the  choice  between  the  artistic 
and  accomplished  lie  of  old,  cultured  Europe, 
a  lie  which  is  the  outcome  of  a  thousand 
years   of  hard   and   bitter   effort,   and   the 

239 


artless,  sincere  simplicity  of  young,  uncul- 
tured Russia. 

They  are  nearer  the  end,  we  are  nearer 
the  beginning.  And  which  is  nearer  the  truth  ? 
And  can  there  be  a  question  of  voluntary, 
free  choice  ?  Probably  neither  the  old  age 
of  Europe  nor  the  youth  of  Russia  can  give 
us  the  truth  we  seek.  But  does  such  a  thing 
as  ultimate' truth  exist  ?  Is  not  the  very 
conception  of  truth,  the  very  assumption 
of  the  possibility  of  truth,  merely  an  outcome 
of  our  limited  experience,  a  fruit  of  limita- 
tion ?  We  decide  a  -priori  that  one  thing 
must  be  possible,  another  impossible,  and 
from  our  arbitrary  assumptions  we  proceed 
to  deduce  the  body  of  truth.  Each  one 
judges  in  his  own  way,  according  to  his 
powers  and  the  conditions  of  his  existence. 
The  timid,  scared  man  worries  after  order, 
that  will  give  him  a  day  of  peace  and  quiet, 
youth  dreams  of  beauty  and  brilliance,  old 
age  doesn't  want  to  think  of  anything, 
having  lost  the  faculty  for  hope.  And  so  it 
goes  on,  ad  infinitum.  And  this  is  called 
truth,  truths  !  Every  man  thinks  that  his 
own  experience  covers  the  whole  range  of 
life.  And,  therefore,  the  only  men  who  turn 
out  to  be  at  all  in  the  right  are  empiricists 
and  positivists.     There  can  be  no  question 

24c 


of  truth  once  we  tear  ourselves  away  from 
the  actual  conditions  of  life. 

Our  confident  truthfulness,  like  European 
rhetoric,  turns  out  to  be  "  beyond  truth 
and  falsehood."  The  young  East  and  the 
old  West  alike  suffer  from  the  restrictions 
imposed  by  truth — but  the  former  ignores 
the  restrictions,  whilst  the  latter  adapts 
itself  to  them.  After  all,  it  comes  to  pretty 
much  the  same  in  the  end.  Is  not  clever 
rhetoric  as  delightful  as  truthfulness  ?  Each 
is  equally  life.  Only  we  find  unendurable 
a  rhetoric  which  poses  as  truth,  and  a  truth- 
fulness which  would  appear  cultured.  Such 
a  masquerade  would  try  to  make  us  believe 
that  truth,  which  is  only  limitedness,  has 
a  real  objective  existence.  Which  is  offen- 
sive. Until  the  contrary  is  proved,  we 
need  to  think  that  only  one  assertion  has 
or  can  have  any  objective  reality :  that 
nothing  on  earth  is  impossible.  Every  time 
somebody  wants  to  force  us  to  admit  that 
there  are  other,  more  limited  and  limiting 
truths,  we  must  resist  with  every  means 
we  can  lay  hands  on.  We  do  not  hesitate 
even  to  make  use  of  morality  and  logic, 
both  of  which  we  have  abused  so  often. 
But  why  not  use  them  ! 

When  a  man  is  at   his    last    resources, 

0  241 


he  does  not  care  what   weapons  he  picks 
up. 

Nur  fur  Schzvindelfreie, — To  be  proper, 
I  ought  to  finish  with  a  moral.  I  ought 
to  say  to  the  reader  that  in  spite  of  all  I 
have  said,  or  perhaps  because  of  all  I  have 
said — for  in  conclusions,  as  you  are  aware, 
*'  in  spite  of "  is  always  interchangeable 
with  "  because  of,"  particularly  if  the  con- 
clusion be  drawn  from  many  scattered  data 
— well  then,  because  of  all  I  have  said, 
hope  is  not  lost.  Every  destruction  leads 
to  construction,  sweet  rest  follows  labour, 
dawn  follows  the  darkest  hour,  and  so  on 
and  so  on  and  so  on — all  the  banalities  with 
which  a  writer  reconciles  his  reader.  But 
it  is  never  too  late  for  reconciliation,  and 
it  is  often  too  early.  So  why  not  postpone 
the  moral  for  a  few  years — even  a  few  dozen 
years,  God  granting  us  the  length  of  life  ? 
Why  make  the  inevitable  "  conclusion " 
at  the  end  of  every  book  ?  I  am  almost 
certain  that  sooner  or  later  I  can  promise 
the  reader  all  his  heart  desires.  But  not 
yet.  He  may,  of  course,  dispense  with  my 
consolations.  What  do  promises  matter, 
anyhow  ?  especially  when  neither  reader  nor 
writer  can  fulfil  them.     But  if  there  is  no 

242 


escape,  if  a  writer  is  finally  obliged  to  admit 
in  everybody's  hearing  that  the  secret 
desires  of  poor  mankind  may  yet  be  realised, 
let  us  at  least  give  the  wretched  writer  a 
respite,  let  him  postpone  his  confession 
till  old  age — usque  ad  infinitHm.  .  .  .  Mean- 
while our  motto  "  Nur  fur  Schwi7idelfreiey 
There  are  in  the  Alps  narrow,  precipitous 
paths  where  only  mountaineers  may  go, 
who  feel  no  giddiness.  Giddy-free  !  "  Only 
for  the  giddy-free,"  it  says  on  the  notice- 
board.  He  who  is  subject  to  giddiness 
takes  a  broad,  safe  road,  or  sits  away  below 
and  admires  the  snowy  summits.  Is  it 
inevitably  necessary  to  mount  up  ?  Beyond 
the  snow-line  are  no  fat  pastures  nor  gold- 
fields.  They  say  that  up  there  is  to  be 
found  the  clue  to  the  eternal  mystery — 
but  they  say  so  many  things.  We  can't 
believe  everything.  He  who  is  tired  of 
the  valleys,  loves  climbing,  and  is  not  afraid 
to  look  down  a  precipice,  and,  most  of  all, 
has  nothing  left  in  life  but  the  "  meta- 
physical craving,"  he  will  certainly  climb 
to  the  summits  without  asking  what 
awaits  him  there.  He  does  not  fear,  he 
longs  for  giddiness.  But  he  will  hardly 
call  people  after  him  :  he  doesn't  want  just 
anybody  for  a  companion.     In  such  a  case 

243 


companions  are  not  wanted  at  all,  much 
less  those  tender-footed  ones  who  are  used 
to  every  convenience,  roads,  street  lamps, 
guide-posts,  careful  maps  which  mark  every 
change  in  the  road  ahead.  They  will  not 
help,  only  hinder.  They  will  prove  super- 
fluous, heavy  ballast,  which  may  not  be 
thrown  overboard.  Fuss  over  them,  console 
them,  promise  them !  Who  would  be 
bothered  ?  Is  it  not  better  to  go  one's  way 
alone,  and  not  only  to  refrain  fyom  enticing 
others  to  follow,  but  frighten  them  off  as 
much  as  possible,  exaggerate  every  danger 
and  difficulty  ?  In  order  that  conscience 
may  not  prick  too  hard — we  who  love  high 
altitudes  love  a  quiet  conscience — let  us 
find  a  justification  for  their  inactivity.  Let 
us  tell  them  they  are  the  best,  the  worthiest 
of  people,  really  the  salt  of  the  earth. 
Let  us  pay  them  every  possible  mark  of 
respect.  But  since  they  are  subject  to 
giddiness,  they  had  better  stay  down.  The 
upper  Alpine  ways,  as  any  guide  will  tell 
you,  are  nur  fur  Schwindelfreie. 


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